The True Inheritance, or Eld Hljödhr abr Wyrda
by Adin the Conqueror
Summary: I refuse to believe this saga ended the way Christopher Paolini wrote it. If you were devastated by his ending, join me in truly concluding the journey of Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales!
1. Friend of Long Ago

I refuse to believe this saga ended the way that Christopher Paolini wrote it. If you were devastated by the ending, then join me in the truly concluding the journey of Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales!

(things must obviously remain somewhat similar for the first page or so. But – be not afraid! I won't betray you!)

VVVVVVVVV

As they emerged from the ruined citadel, the air cleared and Eragon was able to see the destruction the blast had wreaked across Urû'baen. The slate roofs of the nearby houses had been blasted off and the beams underneath were aflame. Scores of fires dotted the houses below and chunks of blackened debris littered the streets, the larger pieces having crashed through walls and wrecking buildings entirely. The air was filled with crackling from the many fires, and distant echoes of discordant shouting rang from the lower levels. Acrid smoke stung Eragon's nostrils as it wafted from the burning buildings into the sky, to gather under the over-hanging stone like a black fog. It seemed everyone nearby had fled either indoors or to the lower places of the city, for the streets surrounding the citadel were empty and silent.

"Do you know where your parents are?" Eragon asked, looking down to the children in his lap. The boy nodded and pointed to one of the nearby houses.

"Is that where you live?" Eragon pressed. The boy nodded. Eragon dismounted and helped the boy and the girl off of Saphira's back. As soon as their feet pattered to the ground, the children hurried across the road, pulled open the creaky door to the stone dwelling, and disappeared inside.

Murtagh and Nasuada dismounted from Thorn's back. Eragon briefly watched as Murtagh healed his gut wound, then began work on mending Thorn's broken wing. Eragon's heart jolted as he realized that he had completely forgotten his and Saphira's injuries. He turned around and stepped close to her. Saphira had a gash on her right foreleg as wide across as his hand, and her foreleg and claws were already stained red with her blood. The smell of it burned like acid in Eragon's nostrils.

_Was __this __tooth __or __claw? _Eragon asked.

_Claw._

Eragon recited the necessary spells in a low voice and the cut wove itself back together with a sound like footsteps in mud, then he healed the spot where Murtagh's sword had struck him.

A fierce ripping sound split the quiet.

Eragon spun to find that Murtagh had torn Nasuada's clothing. Eragon pulled Brisingr halfway out of its sheath before he saw angry welts that covered Nasuada's body. His stomach churned and he stifled a cry – he had seen those same sorts of wounds on Arya, long ago. Murtagh placed his hands on each of Nasuada's injuries and began to speak in the Ancient language. His touch was gentle, almost hesitant upon her skin. One by one her wounds faded, as though her flesh was being cleansed with flowing water. At once the tension held in her shoulders and around her eyes evaporated and she let out a sigh.

Eragon suddenly found his chest tightening and his breathing became shallow, a strange weakness overcoming his muscles. He slumped down to sit on Saphira's talon, running a shaking hand through his hair. His mind vibrated like a tuning fork, unfocused and jumpy. It felt as though a great burden had been stripped from his shoulders and his heart – but he couldn't grasp what had just happened.

_We __did __it,_ he murmured to Saphira. Saying it out loud didn't seem to make it any more real. It was like he was far away, speaking those words in a nearly forgotten dream. She bent her head down and nuzzled his shoulder, the smooth scales of her nose brushing his cheek and her warm breath caressing his neck.

_We __did __it, _she agreed.

…_what __do __we __do __now?_

_Rebuild, _said Glaedr.

_You __acquitted __yourself __well, __Eragon, _said Umaroth. _No __one __else __would __have __thought __to __attack __him __in __the __way __that __you __did._

_I __just __wanted __to __make __him __understand,_ Eragon answered. _I __didn__'__t __even __know __what __I __was __doing, __to __be __honest._

_At __last, __the __Oath-Breaker __is __dead!_ Umaroth crowed. Eragon shook his head, trying to shake himself out of this haze. The idea that Galbatorix was gone, that they had actually won… was impossible. Inside he felt hollow, somehow; he didn't know what to do with himself. Then, as he pondered that thought, something released inside his mind, as though a wall had fallen. He remembered – remembered as though he had never forgotten:

_Saphira!_

_I __know,_ she exclaimed. _The __eggs! _Excitement rushed between the two of them like a bolt of lightning. Eggs! Dragon eggs! Their race would not die. It would flourish!

_Wait, _he cut himself off, a sneaking suspicion coming to him. He turned his attention to Umaroth and the Eldunarí. _You __didn__'__t __make __us __forget __anything __else, __did __you?_

_If __we __did, __how __would __we __know? _Umaroth replied.

Eragon vaguely realized that Elva had been standing next to him this whole time.

"Do you need healing?" he asked quickly. She shook her head.

"No, but many of them do," she said, pointing at the people fleeing down the side streets away from the citadel.

Eragon grunted – for the moment he didn't really care.

Elva suddenly whipped around to look at the entrance to the citadel.

"Look!" she cried, pointing.

Eragon turned to find Arya emerging from the cloud of dust at the citadel's cracked and crumbling entrance, Blödhgarm and the other spellcasters following her. Their clothes and armor looked torn and dirty, but they were otherwise unharmed. In her arms Arya carried a box of ebony with golden hasps. Eragon let out a breath that he didn't realize he had been holding and his heart leaped as a wash of cool relief soared through him.

Eragon jumped to his feet, rushed toward Arya and threw his arms around her, unceremoniously pinning the box between them. He sensed the other elves' surprise, but realized that he didn't care one bit.

"Eragon, what - ?" Arya protested.

"You're alive!" He cried. He pulled away from Arya and embraced Blödhgarm as well. It was an awkward moment before Blödhgarm returned the gesture.

"We are alive, Shadeslayer," he answered.

"Is that him?" Eragon asked as released the fur-covered elf and turned to Arya. A bemused light sparkled in Arya's bright eyes, but she opened the box she was holding. Eragon stepped closer eagerly. Nestled in silk hollow inside the box sat what was unmistakably a dragon egg, not any bigger than Saphira's had been. It was emerald green and sparkled like a multifaceted jewel as it reflected the sun that filtered through the smoke.

A flurry of wings swooshed behind him. Eragon looked behind him, and found Nasuada standing stock still, holding Murtagh's leather saddle bags and looking up to the sky after Murtagh and Thorn as they winged away through the smoke over the burning rooftops.

"Where is he going?" Eragon demanded, rushing to her. She stood watching Thorn and Murtagh, mouth agape.

"He said – 'away!'" she cried. "He gave me all his Eldunarí and simply… left!"

_No. Saphira-_

_I am ready._

Eragon ran to her and leaped onto her back, not bothering to strap his legs to the saddle, and Saphira's claws screeched as she leaped from the cobblestones, powering her wings downward with a mighty _whump_ and soaring after the red dragon already flapping away into the distance.

They sped over the damaged city and passed the city's walls. Cheers echoed up to them as they winged over the tents of the Varden camp, and many a soldier raised a hand in greeting and praise. Eragon kept his focus on catching the red dragon before he had the opportunity to get away. He could see that Saphira was clearly gaining on Thorn as they sped over the green grass of the plains beneath them. Thorn was fast, but there was no one faster than Saphira. Eragon's heart raced as the cool air whipped past his face and forced him to squint. What was Murtagh doing? What was he thinking?

When Eragon was close enough behind them to clearly see Murtagh on Thorn's back, with his black hair streaming wildly behind him as his dragon powered on, Eragon called out to him.

"Murtagh!" He shouted over the rushing wind.

Murtagh didn't turn.

_Fly __up __next __to __him, __will __you?_Eragon asked Saphira. She flapped harder, then spread her wings wide, arced and came up alongside Thorn, the tips of their wings only a few yards away from each other as they flew. Eragon tried again.

"Murtagh, I know you can hear me! Stop!"

Murtagh didn't answer, but this time Thorn dipped his head and began to descend. Saphira quickly followed.

Urû'baen was miles behind them when the two dragons touched down on the plains, their footfalls thudding on the earth. Murtagh jumped from Thorn's saddle and landed heavily, his armor clanking, and placed a gloved hand on Zar'roc's pommel.

"Don't try to stop me, Eragon. I would hate to have to fight you again."

Eragon slipped down Saphira's shoulder and landed lightly beside her talon, grass crunching under his boots.

"I'm not going to fight you," Eragon answered, raising a confused eyebrow.

Murtagh's shoulders relaxed and his hand dropped from Zar'roc's red gemstone.

"Good."

Silence. The smell of battle hung in the air, an acrid bitterness that fought with the scents of the earth and the plains. Not even the wind moved.

"Well, what?" Murtagh burst out after the silence became unbearable.

"What are you doing?" Eragon wondered, raising his palms in confusion.

"Thorn and I are leaving." Murtagh's face was hard as his gaze bore back into him from behind the ribbons of wild black hair that hung in his face.

Eragon stared back at him, his muscles tensing as though getting ready for a fight.

"Why?"

Murtagh snorted and tossed his head.

"You know better than that. It wouldn't work if I stayed. It's better for everyone this way."

"That is nonsense!" Eragon threw his hands out to the sides. "You were friend of the Varden once, Murtagh!"

Murtagh's mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed and wrinkles formed upon his brow.

"Thorn and I have been through enough."

"There is nothing better for a troubled heart than work to occupy the hands," said Eragon quietly. "And others to share the work with."

Murtagh turned away, his face turned downward and his nose wrinkled, his wild hair sliding from his shoulder to cover his face in a waving curtain.

"I have Thorn. I need no one else."

"That's not true and you know it."

Murtagh's eyes flashed to his.

"What do you know of me? You know nothing!" Murtagh howled, his face twisted in rage as he jabbed a finger at him. "You have everything that I ever wanted! You always _received_ everything that was taken from me!"

"Not by my choice!" Eragon protested, raising his hands.

"No, never by choice," Murtagh managed, his voice cracking. "By _fate!_" He spat the word like a curse and stomped his foot, his eyes glistening. "By whatever god that designs to love _you_and punish me just for being alive." Murtagh's hands clenched into fists, the leather of his gloves squeaking.

"Murtagh," Eragon quietly began.

"Please, stop!" Murtagh shouted, raising his hands between them like a wall.

"I know you," Eragon continued, despite his words. "I saw you as clearly as anyone can, save Thorn himself." He carefully stepped forward, closing the gap between. Murtagh stood frozen as a tree on a windless day, his eyes boring back into Eragon like fiery daggers.

"Something clearly happened between you and Nasuada. If that something was great enough to _change_ your true name, why would you run from it - from her? You only run from yourself."

Murtagh's eyelids quivered, and he could no longer hold back the tears that began to fall down his cheeks.

"Eragon…" he croaked in a near-inaudible voice. "Everyone that loves you wishes I were lying dead alongside the King."

"Everyone knew you were unwillingly sworn to Galbatorix," Eragon countered, continuing his advance and raising a placating hand. "They thought of you only as his weapon."

Murtagh shook his head once more, his lip trembling.

"I killed Hrothgar!" he whispered. "The dwarves will never forgive me for that. Even if I was sworn to Galbatorix at the time, I can't do anything to erase that."

"What did you do only a moment ago?" Eragon yelled, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him. "_You_ turned on Galbatorix! _You_ killed him even as surely as I did! If you hadn't used the Name of Names, I would never have had the opportunity I needed! You saved _my_ life, Arya's, Nasuada's, and the lives of everyone in the Varden!"

"They won't forgive me," Murtagh insisted, fresh tears joining the others.

"I am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum," said Eragon fiercely. "I will vouch for you as a member of the Dwarf clans and as a Rider. You tipped the scales in our hour of greatest need, and I - will _not_ let anyone send you away."

For a moment Eragon was silent as he stared into Murtagh's stormy grey eyes that sparkled with sorrow. Eragon's next words almost caught in his throat.

"You are my friend."

Throughout their exchange, their dragons and the Eldunarí had remained silent and watchful, but here Glaedr spoke.

_Young __ones,_ he spoke to Murtagh and Thorn._I __cannot __forgive __the __death __of __my __rider__ – _

Murtagh jumped at the voice, his face paling, his memory of its sound apparent, and Thorn made a noise in his throat like a surprised growl.

-_but I know that it was neither your arm that swung the sword nor your jaws that snapped. There are scores of beings that must answer for their crimes... but I- and the rest of the Eldunarí agree with me - I do not believe you are among them._

Murtagh stiffened, as though all of his muscles had locked in panic. His jaw clamped down and his eyes went wide. His shoulders shook as though a tremor rocked him.

"Eka eddyr buartha," he whispered. I am sorry.

"Vér fricaya onr, Murtagh vor," Eragon answered. He spread his arms. "Gánga néiat." We are your friends. Don't go.

Murtagh's head slowly lowered and he became still. Once more they were silent, the only sound Murtagh's heavy breathing through his nose.

"I've been imprisoned for so long," he murmured. "Suddenly being free… you don't know how alluring an idea it is to run. To fade away and forget."

_You __are __needed __here,_ said Saphira. _The more Riders Alagaësia has, the more quickly we can restore the world to the way it was meant to be._

"She's right," said Eragon.

The silence that followed stretched for so long, Eragon forgot to breathe. He only watched Murtagh's face with a focus he had never known before, desperate for any sign in Murtagh's eyes as to what his half brother was about to decide. After all that Eragon had done today, he knew he could not let his friend exile himself only moments after he'd been freed.

The right corner of Murtagh's lip twitched and he snorted again, raising a hand and wiping away his tears with the back of his fist. Thorn nudged him with his nose and hummed deep in his chest.

_Thank __you,__Eragon __and __Saphira, __for __freeing __us,_ he said, his intense orange eyes looking to the two of them with fierce gratitude. His voice surprised Eragon – it was rich and musical, like the low tone of an Elvish flute. Murtagh nodded, swallowing, looking down at Eragon's knees.

"If we stay… we won't fight any battles for anyone. Thorn and I have had enough blood for a very long while."

"I will act as Rider for the Varden," Eragon agreed, nodding. "You and Thorn can stay in Urû'baen and find all the peace you need."

A smile filled with mirth slowly lit Murtagh's face and he clapped Eragon on the shoulder. He shrugged with a joyful chuckle.

"Then let's go, Eragon."

They returned to their dragons, climbed into their saddles, and Thorn and Saphira leaped into the air. Their brilliant scales of blue and crimson flared in the noonday sun as they sailed on the wind back to the city.

VVVVVVVV

Hundreds of people – soldiers, healers, magicians, and common folk – were milling about the gates and the walls, most looking unsure as to what to do. Everyone gasped and cried out in fear as Thorn burst into view over the city walls, but when he was immediately followed by Saphira, they all stared at them with furrowed brows, taken aback.

Eragon shook his head, almost laughing at all of the people staring, and waved a hand.

"All is well," he called, and after a few more moments of raised eyebrows, the soldiers, healers, and other miscellaneous people continued what they had been doing and the normal, deafening roar of hundreds of voices talking at once assaulted Eragon's ears again.

He and Murtagh hopped off of their dragon's backs, their boots clopping onto the stones, and as soon as they landed Murtagh grabbed Eragon's arm.

"I forgot," he said quietly. "Can you remember the Name, or are Galbatorix's spells still affecting your memory?"

Eragon frowned.

"I can almost remember it…" he admitted, straining his memory, then he shrugged and gave up. Murtagh muttered the Name to remove the spells that protected it from Eragon's mind, then leaned forward and whispered it in his ear.

"Don't tell anyone," he advised. "If it becomes common knowledge, it would make magic worse than useless."

"Agreed."

The two of them and their dragons began walking through the streets, the dragons' combined footfalls rumbling like distant thunder, even over the noise of the people. The crowd swiftly parted before the two of them as they walked, and they had everyone's eyes as they passed. Eragon suspected that the spell that Galbatorix had used to kill himself was the same one that had been used by Thuviel on Vroengard, and that meant that people would need healing from the poison Glaedr had told him of. He and Murtagh worked in tandem, healing everyone they came across – some were beginning to look sick already – because, unfortunately, until Eragon could vouch for Murtagh publicly the people Murtagh would try to heal all thought he was there to kill them.

Up on the citadel, Eragon could see a group of elven spellcasters already at work closing up its entrance with stone, sealing the poisons inside, and all other magicians were sweeping across the city, healing the sick and cleansing the air and surrounding buildings of the toxins.

The sun began to set over the city, bathing the buildings in a warm orange glow and casting long shadows on the grey cobblestone streets. The sky faded to a magnificent, royal gradient of blue, purple, and gold as the sun's flame settled on the horizon.

Eragon and Murtagh came across Arya at the gates soon after the sun had disappeared from sight, she returning from the Varden's camp. Her features were set in such hard lines and her steps so agitated as she passed through the soldiers that Eragon immediately knew something horrible had happened since they were last together.

"Murtagh," Eragon muttered as Arya approached. "Could you and Thorn go talk to Nasuada?"

"I don't know if enough people know I am on your side yet," Murtagh warned.

"If anyone confronts you, swear to them in the Ancient language that I have vouched for you, and show them this as proof," Eragon said, slipping Aren off of his finger and handing it to him.

"Wasn't this Brom's?" he asked quietly as he took the glistening silver ring from Eragon's fingers.

"Yes."

"I will guard it with my life," he promised, and he and Thorn turned and strode up the streets in the direction of the citadel, Thorn's footfalls rumbling and his tail swaying as he walked.

"Arya," said Eragon as she drew close to him. Her features were like steel- the corners of her eyes were clenched and her shoulders were taut as a drawn bow.

"What is it?"

Arya snapped her head to the side, not looking at him.

"My mother."

Eragon's jaw went slack.

"Islanzadí…fell?"

Arya remained silent and still as stone.

"Arya, I'm so sorry- "

"Please, Eragon, I wish to be alone."

And she strode past him, her gait sharp, not looking back.

Eragon looked after her, stunned. Islanzadí was the last being that he would have expected to die in battle. He had been much more worried about Roran or Nar Garzhvog –

Roran!

It hit him like a blow - he realized that he had no idea who had survived the battle and who had not. He blasted his mind outward like a tidal wave and searched for Roran, his heart pounding. He had to have survived. Eragon begged Helzvog and every other god whose name he knew that Roran would be still alive.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he touched a familiar consciousness.

_Roran!_ He cried. He felt Roran jump in alarm, then relax.

_Eragon. __Where __have __you __been?_

_ Chasing after Murtagh, then healing people on the lower levels._

_ Did you kill him?_

Eragon paused, choosing his words carefully.

_If __it __were __not __for __Murtagh, __we __would __all __be __dead,_ he answered. And he told Roran of how Murtagh had taken advantage of the change of his true name, turning on Galbatorix with the Name of Names and giving Eragon the chance to succeed. It took a moment for Roran to answer him.

_There are few songs or tales that can match what has been done today,_ he said quietly.

_If you would, tell as many as you can about Murtagh and Thorn's part in the King's defeat,_ Eragon asked. _He __wanted __to __disappear __forever, __but __I __promised __him __that __he __would __hold __no __blame __for __what __he __has __done._

Eragon felt Roran's surprise, almost like a cocked eyebrow.

_Even __for __killing __Hrothgar?_

_ Even so. Every one of us would have been in the same position had we been forced by Galbatorix to swear that kind of fealty._

_ I suppose. Very well, I will spread the word._

_ Thank you._

Eragon spent the next few minutes sending his thoughts across the city and the camp, searching to make sure his friends had survived. One by one he found Nar Garzhvog, Horst, Baldor, Katrina and Ismira, Jörmundr, the other villagers of Carvahall, and Orik. With each find his disbelief and joy bubbled higher like an ever-filling glass of mead. So few had died! So many of his friends had survived! However, it was only Orik that he directly contacted with his mind; he didn't want to frighten the others out of their wits.

_Barzûl, __Eragon! _Orik shouted at him after he recognized Eragon and let him into his thoughts. _I __thought __some __magician __was __going __to __kill __me __only __hours __after __our __victory._

_It's just me. I thought you would want to know that Saphira and I are all right._

_ That __is __good __news, __mine __foster __brother, _Orik said in relief.

_ I…I also wished to ask if you would grant an audience?_

_ An audience? You need not ask for one, brother; you may speak with me at any time._

_ The audience is not for me._

Orik was puzzled, but refrained from asking more about it.

_Perhaps __after __the __Council __meeting_, he said instead. _Speaking __of __which, __you __must __be __there __as __well._

_ Council __meeting?_ Eragon asked. _When?_

_ In half an hour. I believe Nasuada has sent a page to find and tell you._

_ I'll let him know that it is no longer necessary to do so._

_ I will see you at the meeting, Eragon. Thank you for what you have done this day._

_ Thank you as well, Orik._

VVVVVVVV

PLEASE REVIEW! It's how I manage to stay alive!


	2. A Gathering of Rulers

The streets were silent except for the clink of Zar'roc's fastenings upon Murtagh's belt, the clop of his boots on the grey stone, and the deep rumblings from Thorn's steps as he walked beside him. The ground shook with each of Thorn's footfalls, sending a pleasant vibration through Murtagh's shinbones as he walked. The sound of their feet echoed gloomily off the walls of the buildings surrounding the lanes and courtyards they walked through, devoid of anyone except cracked, dry fountains.

Once or twice, a human, elf, or dwarf came across them. Each time, the person froze, gaped at them, and turned and ran the opposite direction.

Murtagh stared at the ground in front of his feet as a man with silver-colored armor and an axe hanging from his belt rushed away from them after staring at them with the appropriate amount of shock.

_Let them stare,_ Murtagh muttered. _Let them stare and accuse and hate. I don't care. _

_ We have been through far too much to be cowed by the wide-eyed looks of a few frightened sheep, _Thorn rumbled. But even so Murtagh could feel the distaste simmering underneath Thorn's calm. Murtagh's lip curled. No matter what he told himself, every encounter was like a dull knife jabbed into his stomach.

The clatter of hooves on cobblestone rang out in front of them. Murtagh looked up from his brooding and a trio of chargers galloped into the square, an elf astride each one. Murtagh stopped walking, and Thorn halted as well, shuffling a little to stand closer next to him. The elves rode toward the two of them at a frightening pace, their manes and tails billowing, then with a word from their riders all three of the horses dug in their hooves and screeched to a stop two feet away from Murtagh and Thorn, neighing angrily.

Murtagh blinked and looked up at them, his face stony. He calmed his heart, forbidding it to beat any faster than necessary, and softly placed his left hand on Zar'roc's pommel.

Silence. Thorn ruffled his wings, the skin rustling like a cloak in the wind. The elves stared down at him, motionless, their faces without expression. He didn't have to try in order to remain the same.

"You are Murtagh and Thorn," the center elf, a female with brown hair wearing a green tunic embroidered with gold, accused.

"We are."

"Your King is dead," she proclaimed in a haughty voice, looking down her thin nose at him. "You are indeed bold to walk openly in a city your enemies have conquered."

"I have been vouched for by Eragon," Murtagh muttered. He looked away, unable to keep staring into her fierce, unearthly clear eyes. He held out Aren for her to see, looking down at the street. The silver ring sparkled between his gloved fingers, even by the light of the dying sunset.

The elves' brows furrowed.

"He vouches for you even after what you have done?" She asked incredulously.

"What we have done, or been forced to do, has nothing to do with _you_ at all," he bit back at her, his nose wrinkling. A sour feeling churned in his stomach, as though he had indigestion.

"I do not think I believe you," one of the other riders murmured.

Thorn snarled and bared his teeth, making the horses jump to the side and bump into each other.

_Eragon Shadeslayer achí taka ren wiol nosu, und thornessa hringr er älfrí ëinradhin!_ He shouted. _Now, let us through!_

The elves' eyes went wide, obviously surprised that the two of them were telling the truth. After a moment, the elves muttered to their horses again, and their mounts turned and trotted away across the courtyard, their horseshoes clacking like hail as they departed.

Murtagh let out a hiss and lowered his head, his face twisting and nausea welling up in his chest. His hair slid down and covered his face. Tears threatened to spill at the corners of his eyes.

A warm current of air brushed across the skin of his neck, ruffling his hair, and the gentle touch of Thorn's chin came to rest on his shoulder. He lifted a hand and placed it on Thorn's scaly cheek, hugging him close.

_I don't think I can do this,_ he managed. _I don't think I can take much more. _

_You can, _Thorn murmured. He hummed in his throat and wormed his nose into Murtagh's neck, tickling him. Murtagh smiled briefly, squeezing Thorn's nose with his shoulder and cheek and shying away.

Murtagh looked into Thorn's fiery orange eyes, sending his warmth and undying gratitude, and the two of them continued their walk toward the citadel. Over the span of their imprisonment, their actions and words had been so controlled by Galbatorix that he and Thorn had learned to communicate more often with their feelings than their speech. It was the only thing the King hadn't bothered to control. Murtagh suspected that their habit would never be broken, even though they were now free.

They climbed the ivory-colored stairs to the topmost level of the city, where the grandest buildings had once stood. Now not one of them was undamaged from the explosion. The mansions furthest away from the ruined citadel had only a few nicks and holes punched through their walls from the flying debris, while some of the closer buildings had been completely obliterated. In this part of Urû'baen the air smelled like sulfur and ash. Even now, though the elves had long ago sealed its entrance, smoke filtered into the air from the ruined structure, coming to hang over the city like a grey mist.

Again Murtagh cast his mind outward, searching for Nasuada. Each time he had felt for her during his walk he had sensed her presence on the topmost levels of the city, and this time was no exception. He had refrained from talking to her, however. Something in him didn't want to. He couldn't find the words to explain why, not even to himself.

If his senses were correct, she was in a palatial structure not twenty feet away from him, across the cobblestone road that was littered with bits of blackened stone. It was a white building, with multiple domes forming its roofline and a set of gilded marble pillars flanking the enormous pair of oaken doors set in its entrance, which were guarded with a pair of crispy plants standing stiffly in clay pots.

He brushed her consciousness, imagining his own like a leaf on a swaying branch, the same way he had touched her mind before Galbatorix would come to torment her with illusions.

Immediately he felt her response like a swift sunrise. She opened herself to him.

_Murtagh! _she called.

_I'm outside._

He felt her talking to someone – making some kind of excuse – and then she was on her way to meet with him. He withdrew into himself and stood close to Thorn's side, leaning on his warm, scaly flank that gently rose and fell with his deep breaths.

After a moment the doors swung open. Nasuada stood on the threshold, bathed from behind in the sunny light of many candles. Her dark skin shone honey-brown and her hair was set back in a simple braid. A dress of golden silk draped over her shoulders and torso, elegantly hiding how thin had become from her imprisonment, and spilled down over her legs like a shimmering waterfall, and her forearms were bare. Her eyes lit up as she saw him waiting, even in the darkness, and she strode out to him, her steps confident. Her face was shadowed by the candlelight behind her, the rays forming a halo on the edges of her hair. Her eyes were bright and… hopeful. All he could hear was the sound of her slippered feet as she approached, while he looked into her face. She stopped in front of him, the cloth of her dress waving and shimmering like a curtain in a breeze.

For a long moment Murtagh wrestled with a sudden surge of intense discomfort. His chest and arms tightened and became stiff. He thought that he had wanted to talk to her, as Eragon had suggested, but now he wanted her to go away. He wished everyone would go away. He averted his gaze.

"You stayed, I see," she said quietly. His heart pounded a few times, hard, on the backside of his sternum, making him feel lightheaded. He still didn't meet her eyes.

_Murtagh… Thorn murmured, giving him a concerned look._

Murtagh let out a breath and returned his eyes to hers. She was quiet, simply watching him and waiting for him to answer. He didn't know what to say. He'd spent the last few weeks pouring his heart out to her whenever he had gotten the chance, and now his thoughts were completely blank, frozen. The seconds passed, each moment becoming more uncomfortable.

"I- …yes. I did," he finally answered. Nasuada let out a breath. The air around her smelled like lilies.

"That is good."

Once again they were silent. Murtagh felt a nudge from Thorn's mind, prodding him to speak.

"What… are you doing so far up here?" he asked.

"We are about to have a Council meeting. This area had been evacuated because of the poisons, so after the elves cleansed the air and the stone we took possession of this house. We were just waiting for Eragon, so we might begin." Her brow furrowed, looking concernedly at him. "I'm sorry, but only the rulers who were involved in helping the Varden are invited…"

"I wouldn't want to be there anyway," Murtagh muttered darkly.

Nasuada swallowed and nodded, looking discomfited and shifting her weight to her right foot.

"Have you seen Eragon and Saphira?" she asked lightly.

Murtagh shook his head.

"Not since sunset. He was by the city gates at the time."

Nasuada nodded again.

"Would you wait for me here?"

At her words Thorn immediately lay down, the ground rumbling with his weight, and folded his forelegs on top of one another.

The smallest of smiles twitched at the corner of Murtagh's lips as Nasuada laughed.

He nodded.

VVVVVVVV

Saphira's gentle wingbeats almost had a lulling effect on Eragon's senses as the two of them soared quickly over Urû'baen, heading toward the high streets by the citadel. It was a short flight, yes, but even a few moments of soaring through silent skies were pure relief compared to the work he'd been doing. After fighting Murtagh and Galbatorix, not to mention the hundreds of men he had cut down on the way, the last thing he had wanted to do was roam the city on foot, healing everyone he came across. The bones in his feet felt like they'd been hit repeatedly with a hammer.

Eragon let out a breath as Saphira descended towards the citadel at the top of the city. The overhang of rock arched magnificently overhead like a shadowed, curled hand waiting to crush them. Over it, the evening star and a scattering of other celestial lights had appeared in the blue night, and all that remained of the sunset was a pale purple glow in the west.

Eragon immediately spotted Thorn's stocky red shape on the street below, laying down flat with his forelegs folded. Murtagh lay on his dragon's forearms, nestled between them with his back resting on Thorn's chest. Eragon smiled at the scene. It reminded him of Saphira and himself.

Saphira flapped her wings mightily to slow her descent and she touched down at a jog, her steps booming and making the earth shudder. When she was safely standing on all four legs Eragon hopped down off her saddle.

"Hello again," he said. Murtagh looked up from watching his knees, gave Eragon a little nod, then looked down again. Saphira and Thorn greeted each other. Saphira was a little stiff around Thorn, and Eragon had to admit that he was, too. He'd seen more of Thorn from the perspective of an enemy rider than simply as a dragon; it was difficult to keep his hand from drifting to Brisingr when he was around him. Eragon glanced at the building where Nasuada was going to have the meeting.

_It looks like they didn't design this house for dragons, Saphira, _he observed.

_Hmph. No one ever does, _she huffed. She settled down on the other side of the street from Thorn, keeping her head high and alert and wrapping her tail around herself. _I will listen from out here like always._

_ I hope this won't take too long. _Eragon turned to Murtagh.

"Do you think you could wait here for me until the meeting is over?"

Murtagh chuckled.

"Nasuada already asked me to."

"Oh," said Eragon. "Well… anyway, there's something I think it would be good for you to do afterward."

"I will be here," said Murtagh, not looking up. Eragon nodded to himself, then turned and strode up to the front doors of the mansion. He pulled the door open and was immediately swathed in golden light.

The welcoming hall was magnificent. The entire place, floor to ceiling, was crafted of white marble, save for the gold that encircled the tops and bottoms of the pillars that lined the walls and supported the lofty ceiling. A wide staircase lined with ebony handrails curved up to a second floor at the back of the hall, and ornately carved hardwood tables stood beside the two doors on either side that led to different rooms of the house, each adorned with gold and silver vases and plates decorated with fine glaze. Candelabra stood at intervals next to each pillar, lighting the room in sunny colors. Eragon walked forward, unsure of where to go. Each time he stepped, his boots echoed like he was in an amphitheater.

Eragon pulled the oaken door closed behind him, its latch sending a boom like a cannon echoing for several seconds through the hall. Deciding to act for speed rather than privacy, he reached out with his thoughts until he found Nasuada and the other rulers gathered in a room at the back of the house.

He navigated his way there, stepping carefully through one splendid room after another, his battle-worn boots leaving dirty prints on the pristine rugs and carpets that covered the sitting rooms.

When he entered he found Nasuada, Orik, King Orrin, King Grimmr, Nar Garzhvog, Arya, and Lord Däthedr waiting for him around a simple oaken table in an oval-shaped enclave, brightly lit by two candelabra standing on either end of the table which carried five candles each. An arched doorway behind them opened onto a balcony overlooking the entire city. The starry sky seemed bright in contrast to the shadowed landscape underneath it.

All of them looked up as he stepped in.

"Ah, Eragon," said Nasuada. "We have been waiting for you."

"Not too long, I hope?" Eragon said quickly, out of politeness.

She assured him that it hadn't been long. He exchanged traditional greetings in the ancient language with Arya and Lord Däthedr, and greeted the rest.

Then they were silent. Eragon waited, fading into the background as he always did for these meetings. Nasuada had failed to tell him why this council meeting had been called, but he could guess.

The silence stretched. Everyone in the room looked to one another to break the silence. The feeling of weight that had settled on the room confirmed Eragon's suspicions.

"A decision must be made," Lord Däthedr split the silence.

"That we know, elf," Orik grunted.

"We all know why we're here," said Nasuada. "A ruler of the Empire must be chosen to replace Galbatorix, as quickly as possible."

Eragon nodded. He had been right. He sighed inwardly. This was going to take a _very_ long time, he wagered, especially considering how horribly King Orrin had been behaving lately. He wished there were some chairs around this table, but Orrin was the only one seated, due to his injury.

"What we must make clear is that this is a decision for mankind to make," she continued. "We would not imagine that we have the right to decide who shall take up Queen Islanzadí's mantle, nor dictate who should have replaced King Hrothgar." Both Orik and the elves nodded. A flicker of pain crossed Arya's face, but then her mask of calm resumed.

"However," Lord Däthedr interrupted, "This matter is not one that affects only the race of men. Whoever is chosen to become King or Queen of the Empire will drastically effect all of our separate kingdoms greatly. We have been allies enough to offer you advice on this matter, I believe."

Orrin's eyes narrowed. He sat up in his chair, looking daggers at Lord Däthedr.

"And what would it mean if we chose someone against your 'advice?'" he intoned with the barest measure of control.

"If a ruler is chosen who lacks the correct qualities, mankind will inevitably face war very quickly, with us, the dwarves, the werecats, or the Urgals."

"I am curious, Lord Däthedr," Orrin snapped, all civility gone, his nose wrinkled in distain and his brow furrowed. "What qualities do _you_ deem a ruler should have?"

"Unswerving devotion to their people, awareness of the costs of war in both arms, lives and prosperity, the ability to balance the multitude of problems that will confront them, and astute skill in communicating with both their subjects, allies, and adversaries," Däthedr said evenly.

"One of our most obvious choices is Eragon," said Orik. All eyes turned to him, then to Eragon. Eragon stared, surprised. He had long suspected that someone would try to give him the crown, but it was a very different thing to have it said so plainly, out loud.

"He won the day for us- nay, he won all days. He and Saphira are the saviors of Alagaësia," Orik continued, nodding to him.

Eragon looked to all of the faces. Arya and Däthedr remained stoic, which could mean anything; Nasuada's face was similar; Orik looked to him supportively, solidarity set in his eyes; Grimmr Halfpaw was studying his claws as one would study their fingernails; Nar Garzhvog's look was similar to Orik's; Orrin looked like he was about to explode.

Eragon turned inward, listening to Saphira. This whole time, he knew, she was watching and listening through his eyes and ears. Even so, he knew his answer – it was easy, in fact.

"No," he said. "I am honored by your words, King Orik, but I have no desire to rule. And I don't think it is good for any immortal being to rule over mortal men."

Nasuada nodded.

"Well said," she said quietly. She turned to the rest of the group. "I, therefore, submit my claim on the throne."

Orrin's shocked shout burst on all of their ears like a hammer blow.

"I knew it! Why not, Lady Nasuada? You only _completely_ ignored me in every decision that you ever made concerning the Varden, even though we housed you within our borders for years with Galbatorix's fist hanging over our heads! If anyone deserves the throne, it is me. Without Surdan blood the Varden would still be cowering in Farthen Dûr!"

"On the contrary, without me the Varden would be in a similar position, waiting for a sign from the heavens to tell them when to attack Galbatorix," said Nasuada.

"Oh, then let me amend my statement!" Orrin bellowed. "The Varden would not _exist_ without what I, my father, and my grandfather have given to it!"

"Your father and grandfather would not be sitting there whining like a petulant child," Arya snapped.

Orrin's face turned beet red.

"Don't you dare presume to talk to a King in such a manner, _elf_!" He spat.

"Enough!" Orik cried.

King Halfpaw slinked off to the opposite side of the room, as far as he could get from Orrin, his ears flat against his head.

Nasuada continued.

"Orrin, of late I have not been able to understand you. Why do you want the throne?"

"You would never understand," he said bitterly.

"Explain it to us, your Majesty," said Lord Däthedr quietly.

Orrin grit his teeth together.

"We have given far too much to the Varden, to this cause, and it seems to me that our efforts will be repaid only with a royal 'thank you' from future Queen Nasuada and a farewell as we are sent back home to Surda. Well- thank you, but no thank you. I will not be slighted in such a manner."

"Orrin… are you completely ridiculous?" Orik muttered.

"_Do not call me names!_" Orrin screamed. "I demand the respect I deserve! I am a _KING!_"

"Orrin, I had no intentions of granting you nothing in return for what you and your people have done, should I become Queen," said Nasuada. "I would grant you both Feinster and Belatona, along with all the land stretching to, and including, Lake Tüdosten."

"A beggar's earnings," Orrin growled.

Nasuada raised an eyebrow.

"That almost doubles Surda's size," she reminded him.

"Leona lake is the more fruitful of the two lakes," Orrin argued.

"But you have access to Leona Lake through Belatona and the Jiet river."

Orrin fumed.

"This is hardly recompense." He looked to the others assembled.

"Where do you stand in all of this? Well, we know where Eragon stands – alongside his Lady."

"I hardly think that is fair," Eragon protested. "I am a rider. My function is to be a warrior for every race!"

"You have sworn fealty to Nasuada, and are a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum," Orrin scoffed.

"Even if I wasn't, I would stand beside her. She is the right choice."

"We stand with the Varden," Lord Däthedr interjected.

"Aye," Orik agreed.

"And if I choose to oppose Nasuada's claim?"

"Then we will be in conflict with you," said Nasuada. "As will all allies of the Varden.

The room was silent. All eyes rested on King Orrin. He glared around at all of them, his face going redder than before. Finally, he looked down at the table.

"Fine. Very well. I withdraw my claim."

"We must also ensure that Surda continues to be an ally of the Varden, and agrees to certain conditions," Nasuada pressed.

"What kind of… conditions?" Orrin growled through his teeth.

"They have yet to be finalized, but they would be solely considering the use of magic. In all other ways you will retain full sovereignty. Do you agree?"

Orrin blinked and looked down.

"I agree."

"Nar Garzhvog, King Halfpaw, you have both been silent," said Nasuada, addressing each of them in turn. "Have you nothing to add concerning this?"

"We shall honor our allies in peace as well as was done in battle," said Nar Garzhvog. "My only worry is that we shall be at war again." Nasuada raised her eyebrows, taken aback.

"You would break your oath?" she demanded.

"No. But our young have not fought here today," Nar Garzhvog explained. "When their horns begin to grow, they will seek battles in which to win glory for the right to mate. And if there are no battles, they will start them. It is a fear we must think on."

Nasuada looked up into Nar Garzhvog's eyes for a stern moment, then finally nodded.

"As long as the pillow is kept at the right side of the throne for any werecat to sit upon, all requirements are met for my people," said King halfpaw, scratching his ear absent-mindedly with a claw and watching the floor.

Everyone was quiet for a moment.

"The King is dead," Orik proclaimed. "Long live the Queen!"

"The King is dead. Long live the Queen!" They all chanted. Nasuada nodded, and the meeting was adjourned. King Halfpaw immediately vanished out the door. Eragon let Nasuada, Orik, and Lord Däthedr go out before him. He tried to catch Arya's eye as she passed, but she didn't look at him. He felt a pang in his chest, as though she had struck him with the hilt of a knife.

As the other members of the meeting's footsteps faded, Eragon realized that he and Orrin were the only ones left in the room.

"You should tread carefully around me in the future, Eragon Shadeslayer," Orrin growled. The threat in his voice was clear, even if it was well-veiled. Eragon raised an eyebrow and shook his head, trying to stifle a laugh.

"Your Majesty, I fought King Galbatorix this afternoon. You do not scare me at all."

VVVVVVVV

Eragon emerged from the candlelight and into the warm night. A gentle breeze ruffled his clothing and dispersed the bitter smell of charred stone from his nostrils, if only for a few moments. He tugged at his bracers, trying to free up the trapped and sweaty cloth underneath. He really needed to get out of his armor and wash the salt from his limbs. What he wouldn't give to bathe tonight in one of the baths in Ellesméra!

Outside he found Saphira laying by herself in virtually the same position. Thorn still lay similarly on the other side of the street, but Murtagh was on his feet now, speaking with Nasuada in low tones. After a moment the two of them appeared to agree to something and Nasuada left, hurrying up the street. She had only gone a few paces when her Nighthawks slipped out of the shadows of the alleyways and stepped into stride beside her, guarding her from all sides.

"Murtagh," said Eragon in greeting. Murtagh looked up and blinked.

"Nasuada is Queen?" he asked.

"Yes."

_That went rather well, _said Saphira dryly.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow.

"Were there problems?"

Eragon shook his head and put his hand on his hip, brow furrowing in irritation.

"King Orrin almost started a new war right there in the room."

Murtagh nodded briefly.

"What did you need me for?" he asked quietly.

"You'll find out in a moment." Eragon turned and reached out with his thoughts. Then-

_Yes, Eragon?_

_ Orik. I was wondering – could I possibly have that audience…now?_

VVVVVVVV

I like cliffhangers.

REVIEWS ARE MY LIFEBLOOD!


	3. The Throne of Ebony

Sorry it took so long to upload. Thanksgiving stuff got in the way. Here you go!

VVVVVVVV

Saphira and Thorn landed outside of Urû'baen, amongst the sprawling city of tents that made up the Varden's camp. It was night in full now – the stars glittered above like a thousand diamonds set in black velvet. A barely noticeable wind wandered through the camp, bringing with it the dry, earthy smell of plains grass. Eragon dismounted Saphira, dropping lightly to the ground and landing on the balls of his feet. Brisingr clanked against the inside of its sheath at his waist. Eragon heard the light thump of Murtagh's feet hitting the ground on the other side of Saphira.

Since Eragon had requested an official audience with Orik, it would take place in the dwarves' temporary Royal pavilion, a massive grey tent with gold lining which stood at the back of the dwarven section of the Varden camp. It was fifteen feet tall and rectangular, stretching back over fifty feet, mimicking the shape of a real throne room. Two dwarf guards stood on either side of the entrance, clad in heavy, stocky armor and silver mail. Each had already drawn his hammer at the sight of Murtagh and Thorn. Their jaws were set and their eyes narrowed to hateful slits.

Eragon shook his head.

"Please, lower your weapons."

They stared at him for a very long time in disbelief, but eventually let their arms drop to their sides. Neither put their hammers back on their belts, however.

Eragon paused at the front of the tent. Its flaps swayed and Eragon's hair ruffled briefly as the cool wind drifted past.

Murtagh stepped around Saphira and came to join Eragon, but Eragon held up his hand.

"Wait here for a moment," he said quietly.

He pushed one of the tent flaps aside and stepped through.

The inside was lit with a single fire which flickered at the center of the tent, tinting everything yellow and casting deep black shadows everywhere aside from a halo around the blazing logs. Square pillars of thick wood lined the very edges of the tent, spaced ten feet from each other. The fabric that made up the flat ceiling billowed above the fire as though in a wind, and smoke was allowed to escape through a large hole cut in the cloth that exposed the sky.

On the other side of the fire stood a square-set throne of ebony with block armrests and a rectangular back. Absolutely nothing adorned its surface; the throne seemed to be made of darkness itself in the deep shadow of the room. It was an exact copy of the real throne in Tronjheim.

Upon it sat Orik, wearing a mail shirt and his golden helm inlaid with rubies and diamonds. His beard and his eyes glimmered in the flickering firelight. In his lap lay Volund, the King's war hammer. For a moment Eragon's thoughts were stifled by a sudden memory – in the barely sufficient light of the fire, the shadows lining Orik's face made him look very much like King Hrothgar had when Eragon and Saphira had appeared before him so long ago. How everything had changed since those times.

The crackling of the fire was the only sound for a moment. A log popped and sparks erupted, drifting crazily towards the ceiling like fireflies.

"King Orik," Eragon said quietly.

"Eragon."

Eragon's heart pounded in his throat. He felt light-headed. Everything had become very serious all at once. The things he spoke now would be some of the most important of his life.

"I… I asked for an audience, but not for myself."

"Relax, Eragon. You look as though you are about to faint," said Orik with a chuckle. "I doubt anything about me is as terrifying as Galbatorix, eh?"

Eragon swallowed.

"The audience…" he continued, teetering on his next words, "is for Murtagh and Thorn."

Orik's blanched and his eyes went wide with shock and anger. Before he could say anything, Eragon reached out with his thoughts.

_Murtagh, come in._

"You brought-"

But then the cloth entrance parted. Murtagh stepped into the tent, letting the flap fall behind him like a curtain. In the light of the single fire his face looked grim and stony, his unkempt bangs cutting shadows across his face and the rest of his hair falling about his shoulders like a black hood. His red cloak hung like a shroud, concealing him in shadow save Zar'roc's protruding hilt, the red jewel of its pommel shining like a crimson star.

Orik's face hardened into ironclad lines and his brow furrowed into wrinkles, his eyes afire. He angled his head downward like a ram and his grip tightened like a vice on Volund's leather-wrapped hilt.

"You made a mistake coming here, Kingkiller."

Murtagh twitched in surprise, eyes wide behind his bangs. Then his gaze turned to anger.

"Eragon, what is this?" He demanded in a low voice.

But Orik was already on his feet, Volund in his hand and held low, ready to swing. He stepped slowly around the perimeter of the shivering fire, his mail clanking with every heavy boot step, the jewels in his helm glittering.

Eragon saw Murtagh's gloved hand slide to rest on Zar'roc's pommel as he eyed Orik carefully, spreading his stance ever so slightly.

From outside the tent a dangerous growl rumbled. Orik didn't appear to hear it.

"You killed mine foster father, Murtagh son of Morzan."

"Orik, I brought him here to-"

"Remain silent, Eragon. This is between him and me."

Eragon clapped his mouth shut, but watched the two of them carefully, waiting for either one to move.

Orik stopped his advance and pointed Volund at Murtagh.

"You killed King Hrothgar," he repeated, his voice low, looking over the head of his hammer.

"I do not deny it," said Murtagh, motionless, his hand still on Zar'roc.

Orik charged.

He swung with all his might, and Volund came flying straight for Murtagh's ribs.

"Hammär, audr!" Murtagh shouted. Suddenly Volund's trajectory changed and the hammer swung in an arc over Orik's head, as though he had tried to hit Murtagh's nose.

"Orik!" Eragon shouted, rushing forward fast as an elf.

"NO!" Orik bellowed, raising Volund to swing it again.

"Malthinae älfr kalfaya!" Murtagh shouted, drawing Zar'roc with a sound like ringing crystal, and suddenly Eragon's calves were immobilized in an iron grip, freezing him in mid-stride.

Murtagh dodged two more of Orik's wild swings, and blocked another with a mighty crack against Zar'roc's red blade. Sparks flew as stone slammed into brightsteel.

Eragon frantically began reciting a counterspell in the ancient language, trying to get the pronunciation correct while watching his two friends try to destroy each other.

Orik reared back with a yell and swung Volund over his head as though bringing it down on an anvil, aiming to shatter Murtagh's sternum. Murtagh whirled out of the way and Orik stumbled, burying half of Volund in the dirt with a monstrous thud.

"Stenr, eitha!" Murtagh shouted, and Volund, propelled by its stone head, flew out of Orik's hand and bashed into one of the square pillars with a mighty _whack_, making the whole tent shudder with the impact, and fell to the dirt.

"…yali sem er okaligr vel kalfaya iet," Eragon finished. The magic's grip began to lessen, but Eragon was still kept in his place as Orik slammed his fist into Murtagh's stomach. Outside, a dragon's roar split the night. Murtagh doubled over with a grunt and Orik tackled him, jumping on top of him, putting one hand on his throat and raising his fist high.

"_Why?_" Orik cried, his voice breaking. "Why did you kill my father if you could let Eragon live?"

"I…don't… know!" Murtagh managed.

"BARZULN!" Orik shouted and punched him in the nose. Eragon heard a crack and blood began pouring from Murtagh's nostrils, spilling down over the sides of his face.

"Any knurlag of worth can explain his actions! You killed a King! Why?"

"Nng! Because Galbatorix would hurt Thorn if I didn't!" Murtagh burst out through his bloody nose.

Orik went very still, his fist still raised, looking down his nose at him. Murtagh's eyes were narrowed slits and tears spilled over his cheeks.

"He tortured Thorn to force me to swear loyalty to him. Thorn is my weakness. He hurt him so much when we returned from the Burning Plains, just for leaving Eragon and Saphira behind, I- …Hrothgar's death appeased him."

Orik lowered his hand, then took two fistfuls of Murtagh's shirt and pulled his upper body off the ground, bringing them nose-to-nose.

"I don't know how many times I have to say it," Murtagh whispered. "I am _sorry._"

Orik stared into Murtagh's eyes as though searching for something, then let go of his shirt. Murtagh flopped back to the ground, his head slamming into the dirt, his tangled hair laying about him like a laurel.

Orik rose and stepped off of him. In silence Eragon watched as Orik turned his back, walked across the tent, and retrieved Volund. The only sound was the crackling of the burning logs. Thick darkness wavered – Orik's shadow looked like a giant's as it loomed on the tent's wall.

"Eragon, you have seen proof of his character?" Orik asked quietly, his back still turned, running a hand quietly over Volund.

"He swore it to me. I vouch for him, as a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum."

Orik's beard rustled as he turned his head slightly.

"Rise in the presence of a King, Dragon Rider."

Murtagh sat up and got to his feet. He sheathed his sword, wiped the copious amount of blood from his face and mouth with the back of his hand, staining the leather red, and muttered a spell to heal his nose.

Orik turned. The right half of his face lay in shadow, the other in flickering yellow light. He held his hammer with both hands, one hand on the handle, the other supporting the hammer head's weight.

"Do not expect friendship from me or the dwarf clans, Murtagh Kingkiller," Orik growled. "But as one of our own has vouched for you, and by what you have said today, I shall tolerate you."

Murtagh inclined his head, swallowing.

"Thank-"

"Get out."

Murtagh's jaw clenched and he trembled. With a snap of his cape he whirled and stormed out of the tent, throwing up the tent flap and disappearing into the night. Soon after a dragon's furious snarl bit their ears and the whoosh of powerful wings thundered as Thorn lifted off, the air from his flaps sending enormous ripples running over the tent as though it had been caught in a sudden windstorm.

Eragon looked down, nodding to himself, then back at Orik. Orik turned and walked back to his throne, his footsteps deafeningly loud in the silence.

Again the only noise was the crackling fire as Orik sat down upon his black, square throne, laying Volund heavily in his lap.

Eragon stepped forward, though he remained standing on the other side of the fire.

"Orik… I'm sorry."

Orik waved a dismissive hand and looked down, leaning his weight on his left elbow and resting his hand on his mustache.

"You did what needed to be done, mine foster brother. You always do."

Eragon nodded and bowed.

"Thank you for the audience."

"It is a favor that shall always be granted," Orik murmured. He looked up to Eragon and swallowed a bit, his eyebrows knit together. His cheeks shone with wetness, and the corners of his eyes glistened. He breathed in deeply and let out a shaky sigh.

"What do we do now, Eragon? My heart feels hollow."

Eragon was silent. He looked into Orik's face for a long time, desperately searching for something to say.

"I don't know."

_You should really _stop_ having, or going to, any meetings_, said Saphira as Eragon exited Orik's tent. _Every time you have one, someone gets in a fight._

_ This one was different, Saphira,_ said Eragon quietly. He approached her and she leaned her head down to his, her horns and scales shining like mirrors in the silver moonlight that rained down on her from above. He rubbed his hand along her nose and her cheek, feeling the texture of her scales and the warmth of her skin, a movement so simple, a sensation so complex and inviting, that he was able to forget – if only for a moment.

VVVVVVVV

With the next morning came the dawn of a new age. At the beginning of the day, Nasuada called everyone in the Varden to meet in Urû'baen's main square. She brought Eragon and Saphira to stand beside her on the enormous wooden stage,

which brought forth a bout of cheering from the dwarves, humans, and elves, and bellowing from the Urgals, so loud and long that Eragon thought his eardrums would explode. He couldn't keep the smile off his face and Saphira couldn't help holding her head high, posing for all of them.

Then she brought forward Murtagh and Thorn.

Instantly the Varden burst out in cries of outrage and anger, shouting and yelling insults. Nasuada sliced her hand through the air with an expression of anger, silencing everyone in an instant. She proceeded to tell everyone assembled, better than any bard could ever have done, of how the red dragon and rider had turned the tide in the most crucial moment.

"Without him, we would not be standing here now. We would either be dead, or worse than dead. Murtagh and Thorn were the latter for over a year, bound by the strictest and most adamantine oaths that one can contrive. I bear him no ill will, even though Galbatorix forced him to torture me, and I understand that King Orik also bears him no ill will either. Your Majesty, is this not so?"

"It is so," Orik called from his place in the crowd, at the head of the thousands of dwarves assembled. "I cannot speak for our race as a whole, but if _I _release my desire to avenge Hrothgar, then so should the rest of us. Hrothgar was my foster father, after all."

Nasuada nodded.

"Well said, King Orik." She looked to the crowd and spread her arms. "Murtagh was a member of the Varden once; one of the heroes of the battle of Farthen Dûr, in fact, who refused to remain in his cell when he could fight for our cause. I cannot ask you to forgive the dragon and rider that killed your friends, your family. Rather, I ask you to forget the beings that were sworn to Galbatorix, and let them forge their own identities for themselves. Meet Murtagh and Thorn anew."

Even with Nasuada's charismatic words, only a smattering of polite applause met their ears, and only fractions of the Varden were doing it at that. Eragon saw her face fall slightly in disappointment. He set his jaw and stepped forward, knowing what he must do. His heart started pounding in his chest like an executioner's drumroll.

_Go, little one,_ said Saphira, nudging him on with her nose.

He walked towards Murtagh and Thorn, trying to make his steps look purposeful, as the applause died down. The eyes of every member of the Varden rested on him, feeling like the weight of the sky on his shoulders. Murtagh was staring at him, raising a confused eyebrow, and Thorn wore a twin expression on his face.

"My friends," said Eragon, looking back out to the Varden. "My brothers and sisters. I have fought for you since the battle of Farthen Dûr. You have been my inspiration to keep fighting even when my faith in myself was gone." He turned his gaze to Murtagh. "Arya, Saphira and I were subdued the instant we set foot in Galbatorix's throne room. Murtagh and Thorn broke free of their oaths and attacked him, distracting him for a precious moment. Because of their act, I was able to cast the spell that ended him. All of us who fought in that throne room share an equal part in victory, but to them we owe our lives and our souls."

And, with the feeling of weight and strength in his every muscle, knowing the absolute power of the gesture's meaning, he sank to one knee and lowered his head.

"You are our saviors, Murtagh and Thorn."

There was silence. Everyone stared. Jaws hung slack.

Then with a sound like hushed voices, the Varden – humans, elves, dwarves, Urgals, and even Saphira, all, fell to one knee in honor of the red dragon and Rider. The two stood alone above thousands, unable to say a word.

VVVVVVVV

Work immediately began on rebuilding the Empire, both in what had been damaged by the war and what Galbatorix had done over the last century. Eragon and the other spellcasters began excavating the destroyed remains of the citadel, clearing out Galbatorix's storehouses of magical artifacts. Inside they found hundreds of stolen riders' swords – blades that had been lost or forgotten – and thousands of items imbued with fantastical spells. Eragon's favorite was an astrolabe that was enchanted to be able to see the stars at any time, day or night, even if one was indoors.

He also helped Blödhgarm and the other elves to transport the Eldunarí that Galbatorix had imprisoned to a small stone structure far from the city – along with a few of the Eldunarí that had come with Eragon from the Vault of Souls – so that the elves might attempt to rehabilitate them without fear of endangering the nearby citizens.

The people of Urû'baen oftentimes tried to fight the Varden, either by massing together in protest or by attacking in small groups. It was a nuisance at the moment, but it was something that Eragon feared could get out of hand if Nasuada wasn't careful to stabilize things quickly.

A few weeks passed, and Eragon realized that he had not seen Arya since the meeting that had decided who should be King or Queen. He and Saphira flew out to the small building where Blödhgarm and the other elves were keeping the Eldunarí to ask after her.

"She has gone, Shadeslayer," Blödhgarm answered quietly.

All air was ripped from Eragon's lungs.

"Gone?" he repeated in a whisper, staring back at him with wide eyes.

"Yes, Shadeslayer. She left with a royal guard two nights ago, carrying with her the green dragon egg. She said that she wished to take it to Ellesméra as soon as possible, so that it might possibly hatch for an elf."

Eragon turned away, his heart hammering in shock, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"Are you all right?" Blödhgarm asked, tilting his head to the side and trying to meet Eragon's eye.

"I'm…fine. Please, don't let me keep you. Thank you for your time."

Blödhgarm frowned, looking concerned, but nodded.

"You are welcome, Shadeslayer," he said quietly, and turned back to re-enter the building. Eragon staggered over to Saphira and fell heavily against her side, covering his face with his hand.

_Little one_, was all Saphira said as she brought her face over to him. He swallowed desperately.

_I can't… I should have spoken to her sooner._

But it was too late. Arya had left, and hadn't even bothered to tell him goodbye.

VVVVVVV

Turns out my note at the end of the last chapter was a warning, eh? *laughs evilly*

PLEASE review. Even if all you say is "I liked this," I still personally answer every one! I've never been heard to complain about getting too many reviews!


	4. Coronation

Thank you so much for the tons of awesome reviews! I love them! I'm so sorry that I've been so delinquent in updating. Thanksgiving stuff got in the way, and on top of that I just started a new job. I'm adjusting to my new schedule, so in a bit things should be back to normal. Aes Dana, you hit the nail right on the head. So, in a way, this chapter is for you. Enjoy!

VVVVVVVV

Murtagh stared into the enormous floor-length mirror, examining every detail of his reflection. He had thought that readying himself for the night's events would have taken him only a few minutes, at first, but now hours had passed and he still wasn't certain that he was ready.

Bathing, washing his hair, and shaving his face had all been relatively simple tasks, but what had ground him to a halt was his choice of clothing. Ever since he had been abducted and sworn into Galbatorix' service he hadn't bothered about how he had looked, but for some reason tonight he had come to care again.

His and Thorn's usual quarters had been in the Citadel atop Urû'baen, but even after this long time that area was still quarantined. He and many others had been relocated to some of the abandoned buildings in the lower rings, which were by no means any less grand, but the nobles who had lived in the upper ring had thrown an absolutely horrid temper tantrum when, for their own safety, Nasuada had forbidden them to return to their homes until the poisons from the explosion had been fully cleared.

The pair of rooms he now shared with Thorn were made of grey stone marked with age, and had one window each: one elegant one in the form of an archway that stood at Murtagh's bedside, and another in the form of a gaping hole that had been blasted through the outer wall by a catapult. It was a near-perfect place for a dragon and rider to live, with plenty of room for Thorn to fly in and out. Thorn lay curled in the adjoining room that was now open to the evening sky, watching Murtagh quietly, his wings folded and his sides gently rising and falling like a sleeping cat's. That room had once been for entertaining guests, Murtagh assumed, but as all of the furniture had been completely demolished by whatever boulder that had slammed its way through, Murtagh had cleared the debris away to give Thorn a place to lay while he got ready.

Murtagh's focus didn't leave the mirror. One of the excellent things about these arrangements had been the enormous walk-in closet containing all manner of fine clothes. That was part of what had taken him so long, along with whatever desire that for some reason now pushed him to look his best for tonight.

He had selected a red shirt that fit tightly across his chest and yet had billowing sleeves, with black cuffs, a silken ruff of similar coloring wrapping around his neck, and black lining at the bottom seam. He wore black boots that folded over just before his knees, and, tucked into them, tight-fitting black leather pants stitched on the outsides in a crisscross pattern with dark grey leather strips. Over his shoulders he had thrown a dark brown, sleeveless robe, then had exchanged Zar'roc's battered belt with a silver-plated one, belting it on over everything at his waist. He wore fine black leather gloves on his hands, and for his right forearm he had found, stuffed away in a chest that had been hidden in a corner of the closet, a purely decorative, lavish bracer made of silver with gold accents, in the shape of interlocking and twisting leaves.

Murtagh frowned, examining his reflection from his boots, to his glittering sword, to his head, then snorted and stepped back into the closet.

_What is wrong now? _Thorn sighed.

_It needs… something here,_ said Murtagh, tapping his chest. He went back to the chest of valuables in which he had found the bracer, and began searching through it again. Before long he had found the perfect addition to finish off his outfit – a shining silver, coin-shaped pendant that hung from a thin chain. He tied it around his neck, ran his hands through his hair to free any pieces that the chain might have caught behind it, and stepped out of the closet.

_Well… how is this?_ Murtagh asked. He spread his arms, letting Thorn look him over. Thorn's eyes wandered over him, and then he nodded.

_You look good, _he said simply. _She will be pleasantly surprised, I think,_

Murtagh frowned, dropping his arms.

_She?_

Thorn chuckled and didn't answer.

Murtagh shook his head and strode over to Thorn, climbing up his foreleg and settling himself comfortably in the saddle.

_Hurry, we don't want to be late,_ he said. Thorn turned around and looked at him with a single golden eye, raising his scaly eyebrow.

_You are telling _me_ to hurry?_

Murtagh pursed his lips and remained silent, then Thorn fluttered his wings, let out a huff of air, and leapt out of the hole in the wall, spreading his wingspan to its full length in the free sky and spiraling downward to the main square.

The assembled crowd gasped as Thorn magnificently descended, his fiery scales sparkling in the setting sun as his talons thundered down onto the stone. As soon as Thorn was settled firmly on the ground, Murtagh raised his leg, twisted, and hopped down from his saddle, landing lightly beside Thorn's foreleg, Zar'roc clanking at his side and his hair flying about his head before coming to rest again on his shoulders. He quickly ran a hand through it to settle it back down.

The square was bedecked with strings of garlands that arced over the heads of the party guests, and streamers that waved in the breeze. In preparation for the coming night, dozens of torches shimmered on pikes that were scattered around the area. An enormous stage, the same one that Nasuada had spoken on before, sat in the center of the square, and upon it stood a gilded throne of dark wood accented with gold. Humans, elves, dwarves, Werecats and Urgals, all in their finest dress, had assembled in the square, creating a tableau of vibrant reds, golds, greens and blues as they stood and talked. For a moment, though, everything had become still and silent as they stared at Murtagh and Thorn. Most faces were cold as stone as they looked upon him, either blank and without emotion, or haughty and filled with anger. It was obvious that, though Eragon himself had honored him, the Varden still did not want him around. Murtagh swallowed.

A piece of the sky flared like sunlight on a polished sword. Everyone's eyes left Murtagh and Thorn and turned to look as it morphed Saphira, sparkling like shining jewels as she descended. A wave of awe and… something almost like amazement… flowed between Murtagh and Thorn at the magnificent sight. Murtagh shook his head, ignoring Thorn's thoughts for a moment as Saphira swept down from the skies, flapping her wings as she landed and sending currents of speeding air wafting through the square, ruffling dresses and cloaks and messing up the women's hair. Murtagh smiled and shook his head, casting his thoughts in their direction.

_Couldn't let me have all of the attention, could you?_

Saphira shuffled her wings and folded them at her sides as Eragon dismounted, the light from her scales casting blue patterns across the courtyard floor.

_I have no idea what you are talking about, _said Saphira. Eragon smiled briefly.

Eragon and Saphira approached the stage that stood in the center of the square. The nobles of the court and the people of the Varden quickly parted ways, some even looking down in deference. Eragon nodded to them, then mounted the stage. Saphira was right behind him – the boards of the stage creaked loudly as she stepped upon it. Eragon came to stand on the right side of the throne, and Saphira next to him, leaving the other side for Murtagh and Thorn.

Murtagh took a deep breath, then stepped into the midst of the crowd.

All eyes turned from Eragon and Saphira to him. He felt Thorn's familiar stride rumbling behind him and took comfort from the sound, trying to ignore all of the eyes and murmurings that surrounded him. Though none were openly hostile, very few of the assembled people expressed any friendliness toward him. Eragon and Saphira watched him from their place on the stage, waiting.

Murtagh hopped up onto the stage, his boots clomping on the wood and Thorn joined him, his talons making scratches on the once-smooth surface. Murtagh came to stand on the other side of the throne, though he stood further back than Eragon did. It was Eragon who would be crowning Nasuada, after all.

The sun set on the horizon, bathing the sky and the city in the colors of fire, and somewhere a massive gong was rung. All talking ceased, and every eye turned to the direction of the ruined citadel.

Nasuada emerged from the nearest street, flanked on either side by her Nighthawks. All were impeccably dressed, though they still openly wore their weapons. Even the Urgals looked more refined – their ribbed horns shone in the torchlight, as though they had been waxed. Nasuada wore a dress of royal purple with slits in the sleeves to reveal her scars from the Trial of Long Knives. A train of white, long fur that waved like tall grass as she walked fell from her shoulders to drag on the stone behind her, trailing for ten feet. Directly at her side walked Elva, dressed in a gown of simple black – Murtagh had advised Nasuada to keep Elva as close to her as possible, and it appeared that she was doing just that.

The ceremony was simple, but all the better for it. Nasuada approached the stage and walked up a set of steps that rose to the throne. Murtagh suddenly found his breath catching in his chest as he looked at her. Her honey-brown skin was clean and without any makeup or ornament. Her eyes were warm, yet full of focus, and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail lined with an intricate net-like pattern of braiding. She smiled at him.

A dwarf from Orik's clan appeared at Eragon's side, holding a golden crown on a scarlet pillow. It had been fashioned by the dwarves themselves, since the Crown of the Broddring Kings had been destroyed in the explosion. Set in the metal glimmered precious jewels, which had been given by the elves from their belts and their swords.

Nasuada knelt before the throne, her train falling behind her like a white river over the stairs. Eragon stepped before her and gently set the crown upon her head.

"Rise Queen Nasuada, Daughter of Ajihad and Nadara," he said in a ringing voice. Nasuada rose, then turned to face the crowd. Polite clapping by the nobles was immediately drowned out by the deafening cheers from the Varden. Murtagh found a smile creeping to his lips, and he absentmindedly brushed a hand along Thorn's foreleg as he looked at Nasuada. Her white train was exchanged for a cape made of red satin, and she slowly lowered herself onto the throne.

King Orrin knelt before her and swore his loyalty; he was followed by King Orik, King Halfpaw, Lord Däthedr, and Nar Garzhvog, who each in turn promised friendship from their races.

Murtagh saw a sparkle of tears in Eragon's eyes as Eragon looked upon Nasuada, sitting regnant on her throne and accepting the vows of friendship. Murtagh's chest ached at the sight. It seemed impossible that someone as just and good as Nasuada now ruled the Empire, that they would have a chance for true peace. Galbatorix had controlled Alagäesia for so long, Murtagh couldn't even begin to imagine what life would be like in the future.

Soon after the ceremonial fixtures ended, Nasuada rose from her throne and the assembled crowd spread out into the square in preparation for dancing. Murtagh saw Eragon and Saphira quietly leave the stage and settle themselves in a corner of the square, Saphira lying down and Eragon lying on her foreleg, looking out to the crowd with his arms crossed. In the opposite corner, a band of musicians raised their instruments and began to play a lively tune on their lutes, harps, and flutes. Murtagh lowered his head and followed Eragon's lead. While Nasuada was busy greeting some of the nobles who had deigned not to dance, he and Thorn slipped off of the stage, wading their way through the crowd, and settled alongside Saphira and Eragon, taking up a large piece of ground in one corner of the square.

The dancers touched hands and spun around each other, weaving in organized circles, stepping forward and stepping back, talking eagerly all the while as the music echoed across their heads, bouncing off the stone of the surrounding walls. The torches smelled of ash as they crackled all around, casting their warm glows over the party like dozens of miniature campfires and making thousands of dancing shadows to accompany the real figures that moved on the dance floor now.

Murtagh's muscles still felt taut and nervous around the strangers, but now he knew that, for some reason, he wasn't the only one. He didn't need to have an empathetic connection to Eragon to know something was wrong. Eragon sat with his arms folded, staring into the crowd with a completely blank expression, and Saphira was curled so that her head could be near his, like a mother hen shielding her chick from some outside threat.

Murtagh remained silent, looking out at the crowd. The musicians began to play a slower tune and the dance changed, but he paid it little attention. He simply tried to lose himself in the shapes and colors of the spinning dancers, trying to shrink away from the world.

The dancing couples before him suddenly paused in their twirl, as did dozens of others nearby, and the talking in this area of the party quieted. Murtagh looked to them, his eyes narrowing.

The crowd parted to reveal Nasuada herself, more beautiful and resplendent than any other human, dwarf, or elf, stepping past each couple as they bowed or curtsied to her. Her crown sparkled from where it sat among her braids and her violet gown shimmered like liquid metal in the torchlight. Eragon rose from Saphira's foreleg as she approached him, and he nodded to her.

"Your Majesty," he said quietly. Murtagh stood upright and gave her the same greeting. A gentle smile graced her lips and sent a glimmer to her eyes.

"You need not defer to me, Dragon Riders. It is I who honor you - as well as you, Thorn and Saphira," she said, looking up to the dragons.

_Thank you, Nasuada,_ said Saphira and Thorn in unison.

Both riders nodded, then returned to their former positions, Eragon on Saphira's foreleg and Murtagh leaning against Thorn's. After a moment, Nasuada came to stand between them.

The three were quiet for a long while as they listened to the happy music and watched the dancing, cheerful chatter murmuring beneath the music's flow as the couples talked amongst themselves. Multiple times Murtagh spotted women glancing over to Eragon in an almost hungry way, and once or twice he thought a couple of them even looked at _him _with interest.

He quickly dismissed that as impossible.

Nasuada bounced a little on her toes and folded her arms behind her back, concealing them beneath her red cloak.

"There are many couples dancing," she observed.

Murtagh nodded.

"Yes."

They were quiet again. Nasuada glanced at him, then back at the crowd. Suddenly it seemed as though Eragon and Saphira had become invisible, and tension hung in the air like a taut bow between Murtagh and Nasuada, a tension that he couldn't identify. Things had felt so simple during the war. There were friends, and there were enemies. Now that the war was over, things had become complicated – now the actions at a dance and the silences that stretched between two people had become vital matters.

_Say something,_ Thorn whispered.

_Like what?_ Murtagh asked.

_Try… the obvious?_

Murtagh frowned and glanced up at Thorn with his eyes, raising an eyebrow.

_Sometimes you don't make any sense._

_ Sometimes you are thicker than a Feldûnost, _Thorn retorted.

"I have an idea of dancing tonight," said Nasuada, breaking the silence again as she continued to look out to the crowd. "but there are few that have the courage to dance with a Queen. Orrin certainly won't do, he is still injured. And I doubt Lord Däthedr would be an engaging partner."

"Hmh," said Murtagh.

Did she roll her eyes?

She snorted.

Murtagh raised an eyebrow at her, realization slowly beginning to dawn on him.

"Nasuada," he said quietly, turning to her. She turned towards him, her eyes flashing in the flickering torchlight. Her face seemed close, so close that everything else faded into the background – it was all he could see or think about. Her brown eyes stared into him, inviting and warm.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Do you… want to dance?"

_There you go, idiot,_ Thorn grumbled in a patronizing voice. Without taking his eyes from Nasuada's face, Murtagh punched him in the foreleg and Thorn grunted. Nasuada gasped in surprise, then laughed.

"Thorn, are you talking about me?" she scolded, looking up at him with amusement dancing in her eyes. Thorn shuffled the weight on his shoulders, almost like an excited dog, and looked away aloofly.

_No._

Nasuada laughed again, and Murtagh smiled a little. For a moment he thought he heard Saphira's rumbling laughter joining hers.

"Yes, I would very much like to dance," Nasuada answered. She held out her hand, her purple, silken sleeve slipping down her forearm like water. He gently took it and found himself stepping away with her. He looked only into her eyes, ignoring all the thoughts of everyone around him even as they openly stared at him.

Let them stare, he thought.

Then - it seemed to be by fate's instrument - a new song began.

A gentle drum pounded a complicated cadence and the low strings played a repeating pattern.

Eyes locked on her, Murtagh stepped forward and touched a raised hand to hers. Her skin was cool and smooth against the calluses of his palm. They gracefully stepped in a circle around each other, their palms touching, as the joyful harp began to sing over the crowd. Everything was silent except for the music. Murtagh felt many eyes on him, but looked only at her. Her eyes and skin shimmered in the torchlight.

They stepped away from each other for a moment, then stepped forward again with a bow. The flute joined the harp, intoning the same melody, as though a songbird had joined in.

Murtagh's thoughts suddenly fell away like water from an overturned goblet. He stared into her eyes as they danced, her irises reflecting the firelight and the splashes of color from others' clothes as they spun. The two switched their stances, grasping both hands, one hand above their heads and the other at their chests, entwining as they spun, their faces close.

It was simplicity. Nothing else mattered in the world. Nasuada held the key that had at this moment unlocked his steel cage, freeing him to look upon her for as long as he wished, memorizing every curve of her face, the lines of her nose, the almond shape of her eyes. The frantic pace of the flute, harp and drum shimmered on the air, making his heart pound as he looked into her eyes, the world around him fading into a blur as they spun.

They pulled away again, their hands still clasping one another, and ceased moving.

The world was still.

The silence began to press on his ears. The music had stopped.

And then his peace was rent like a knife slashing through a curtain.

Nasuada's once-happy face flickered with sudden concern.

It wasn't simplicity. It was impossible.

Murtagh looked around. People were watching him. They were always watching. He could read their subtle glances like words inscribed on canvas.

And how could he have let himself be this stupid?

Murtagh's lip curled and his nose wrinkled.

He turned away from Nasuada without a word and strode back to Thorn. She called after him. He ignored her as he would ignore the wind. Thorn was raising his head in alarm.

_Murtagh?_

_ Let's go,_ he said quietly. He stepped onto Thorn's foreleg, but Thorn pulled it away, making him stumble backwards.

_No,_ he said quietly. He sent Murtagh a jumbled message of feelings and images. The way he had looked as he and Nasuada danced. Thorn's desperate desire for him and Murtagh to be happy. An ironclad certainty that Murtagh needed her.

_Stop,_ said Murtagh, closing his eyes and raising his hand, as though trying to block the images.

The square remained as silent as death. Everyone was watching him. He could see Eragon looking to him, a worried look on his face, and Saphira was the same.

"STOP LOOKING AT ME!" Murtagh screamed out, his voice reverberating off of the stone. Everyone behind him jumped.

"Murtagh," Nasuada murmured behind him. He felt her approaching footsteps.

_Fine. Don't help me,_ he growled at Thorn. He whirled and stormed away from the square.

_I will not help you wound yourself,_ Thorn whispered in his mind.

Murtagh ground his fingers into his skull, closing himself off from everyone and everything as he disappeared down a side street. After a few long moments after he had vanished from the sight of the partygoers, he heard the distant echo of the music starting again.

He walked straight to the wall that separated the second level from the upper ring.

"Audr!" he yelled. In mid-stride he shot into the air, his cloak flapping behind him and his hair plastered to his skull, flicking the back of his neck, as he soared a hundred feet into the sky, the surrounding buildings shrinking as though the ground was falling away. The rushing wind was almost icy on his face, making his eyes water. He took a step forward at exactly the right moment and his toe met the top of the wall. He continued walking as though nothing had happened, disappearing among the unlit, shadow-filled streets of the empty upper ring, desperately trying to hide from fate's poison.

VVVVVVVV

The party slowly resumed after Murtagh left. Eragon remained where he was, sitting on Saphira's foreleg and leaning back against her flank. Nasuada had left, crossing the square and coming to stand by Lord Däthedr. Thorn was in exactly the same position as before, as though Murtagh was still standing next to him at that very moment. There was far too much going on. Things seemed even more complicated now that Galbatorix was dead.

At least Murtagh was given the chance…

Eragon squeezed his eyes shut, trying to drive the thought of her from his mind. But even if he had managed to succeed at that, he could never have banished it from his heart – it literally ached, and he could not think of anything that could cure it. Anything except for-

_Stop it, _Eragon snapped at himself.

_Shhh, _Saphira said soothingly, lowering her head to him. _I'm sorry, Eragon._

_ It was my fault._

Saphira was silent.

Eragon tried watching the party, losing himself in the dances, or in watching the mingling members of the Varden. He saw old friends – the men of Carvahall dancing with their wives, or with new acquaintances. After a long while of trying to ignore the unbearable throbbing in his chest, Eragon spotted Roran and Katrina dancing together, circling around each other with their palms touching as the harp and flute rang out over the crowd.

After the dance had finished, Roran and Katrina bowed to each other, laughing, and then Roran spotted Eragon. Roran raised a hand, and Eragon waved back. Taking Katrina's arm in his elbow, the two of them weaved their way across the dance floor.

"What are you doing sitting up here by yourself, Eragon?" Roran asked. "You're the most sought-after bachelor in the whole kingdom!"

Eragon chuckled sadly.

"The only partner I would consent to dance with would accidentally clear the dance floor with one sweep of her tail."

_That I would, _Saphira snorted, _if you could ever get me to dance. Which you couldn't._

Eragon was silent, and Roran's expression grew serious.

"Katrina?" he said quietly, placing his hand on hers where it rested on his elbow.

"Of course," she said quietly, nodding, her red hair swaying a little, and she stepped away to join a small circle where Elaine and Horst stood talking with a pair of dwarves.

"Saphira, do you mind?" Roran asked, gesturing to the empty spot on her foreleg next to Eragon.

Saphira shook her head, and Roran sat.

The pair were quiet for a long moment. Eragon felt Saphira begin to quietly begin a conversation with Thorn – something about Ellesméra.

"What has happened?" Roran asked quietly. Eragon kept looking dully out at the crowd. Now that some of the men had begun to retire from the dance floor, more and more women were left without a partner, and many of them were looking to Eragon, obviously hoping that he would ask one of them.

"Arya left," Eragon answered.

"Ah."

Roran was still. He looked down at the floor.

"I had heard that she wanted to return in order to attend her mother's funeral," said Roran.

"Yes, possibly," said Eragon. "And also to take the third egg to the elves."

"Then I don't understand."

"She and I have been through so much together, Roran," Eragon said heavily, turning his gaze to his cousin's. He touched his fingers to his forehead. "I… I have always loved her."

"I know," Roran said with a nod. Eragon stared at him, lowering his hand.

"Am I still a blithering idiot when it comes to her?" Eragon demanded. Roran quickly shook his head.

"No, of course not. You've changed a great deal."

Eragon sighed and leaned forward, pressing his palms into his eyes and running his hands down his face.

"She left without saying goodbye."

"All right, I cannot stand it any longer!"

Eragon jumped and looked up. Standing before him was Angela the Herbalist, wearing an orange dress that shimmered when she moved, and a simple brown belt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her hands were on her hips, like a mother scolding her child.

"You are going to dance with me, right now," she stated.

"Angela, I'm-"

She grabbed Eragon by the wrist and yanked him to his feet, pulling him away from Saphira and Roran before he could argue. She towed him to the dance floor, jumping in in the middle of a song, and they began to dance.

"I've been wanting to talk to you, but hadn't got the chance lately," said Angela. The dance was much simpler now, a simple, slow one designed more for conversation than for the dance itself. They grabbed each other's hands and Eragon raised his, letting her spin underneath it.

"What about?" Eragon asked quietly, watching her.

"Oh, this and that," said Angela with a glittering smile. "Wondering what you've been thinking about since you killed the King."

"I… I don't know."

"You don't know what you've been thinking?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Eragon sighed. He was not in the mood for her games.

"I have not been thinking of anything that I wish to share."

"Well, that's completely different!" she exclaimed. They stepped toward each other, their palms touching, then stepped back. Everyone around them was doing the same step in time with each other and the music, moving in and out of each other with precision, like an undulating patchwork quilt.

"I've also been wondering what _you _are going to be doing now that your quest is done," Angela continued.

"I don't know that either," Eragon answered.

"You are not being very fun," she commented.

"I have not been having much fun lately."

"Oh? Why is that?" She asked as she spun under his arm again, her hair whirling about her head and brushing against the sleeve of her dress.

Suddenly Eragon was struck with a memory and he turned an irritated gaze to her.

"You know, I do not think your prophecies were correct."

Angela gave him a look of genuine surprise.

"Really?" she asked. "Which ones?"

"You said that I would have an epic romance with a princess – Arya. At this moment, it looks as though she's disappeared back to Ellesméra and I may hardly ever see her again. I did not know that one person falling in love with another and being constantly… denied was considered an epic romance. At all."

Angela rolled her eyes.

"Are you dead yet, Eragon? I did not give a timeline for this 'epic romance' aside from that."

Eragon frowned, a miniscule glimmer of hope forming.

"You mean-"

"I mean nothing," Angela cut him off sharply. "I mean exactly what my prophecy said."

"Well, what about your other prophecy?" Eragon asked as they turned sideways and circled each other. "About me leaving Alagäesia forever?"

"You will one day leave Alagäesia forever," Angela said with a shrug.

Eragon stopped dancing. He turned to her, all lightheartedness gone.

"You are serious?" He pressed.

"Prophecies are never funny," she said, gazing back at him with a small twitch in her lips.

"And prophecies are always fulfilled?" Eragon asked.

"Usually always, except when they're not."

Eragon blinked, then shook his head in anger.

"I think I am done dancing," he fumed though his teeth. He turned and left the dance floor, stepping up to Saphira.

_…feel completely at home with the elves. One day soon, I do believe I will show you Ellesméra and Du Weldenvarden myself._

_ I would like that,_ Thorn rumbled warmly.

For a brief moment Eragon noticed that the two of them were paying rapt attention to each other as they talked. But as Eragon stepped closer Saphira noticed his presence.

_What is it?_ She asked, turning to him.

_Nothing,_ said Eragon quietly. Angela followed him from the dance floor, her arms crossed and her hands covering her elbows.

"You make no sense to me, Angela," said Eragon, sitting down on Saphira's foreleg again.

Angela flashed him a grin.

"Good."

Eragon looked down at the stone floor.

"Your words are nonsensical. Why would I leave and never come back? Will something force Saphira and I to go?"

"It isn't my job to _interpret_ prophecies, I just give them." Eragon shook his head and looked up at her, amazed.

"Who are you, Angela?"

She smiled and turned away, looking back at him over her shoulder as she left.

"Not even Tenga knew who I am, Dragon Rider."

And she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Eragon to stew with a single, unanswerable question.

VVVVVVVV

There you go! A longer chapter to make up for the delay. Review please, even if it's just two words. I answer them all personally!

Also, here's the song that Murtagh and Nasuada danced to!

www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=1PuIYDyOwc8


	5. The Silence of the Past

Who loves mandatory ten-hour work days? I do!

Not. That's my excuse. I'll try to be more diligent. Here you go!

VVVVVVVV

Things in the capital city had finally begun to settle. Attacks against the Varden patrols were beginning to wane. Nasuada had Eragon use the Name to remove all oaths of fealty that had been sworn to Galbatorix and changed the name of the city back to Ilirea.

Soon after that she sent Eragon and Saphira out across the vast reaches of the Empire. They stopped at every town and, with the help of Umaroth and the rest of the Eldunarí, examined every piece of magic that rested every city. When they discovered something malicious, they removed it, along with all oaths of fealty, with the Word. Though the journeys between the cities were long, Eragon found himself welcoming the solitude – he had been constantly around the people of the Varden for so long, he and Saphira hadn't had any time to simply enjoy each other's presence. The Eldunarí, though ever-present, oftentimes remained completely silent and detached, allowing them to be alone as they soared over the rivers and the plains, heading south to Surda.

In each town they came across hundreds of enchantments, most of them ancient and no longer having a purpose. Eragon and Saphira would stay outside of the cities, feeling the strains of magic with their minds from a distance and trying to determine what each spell was for. The Eldunarí helped greatly – many of them recognized spells that Eragon did not, and some were so old that they actually remembered when the spell had been cast, and why.

It was their help that counted the most when they reached Dras-Leona. Eragon was not surprised in the least to feel the veritable web of spells both ancient and new that wove around the monstrous mountain of Helgrind, some dark and devilish, some governing the jagged shape of the rocks as they jutted towards the sky like a crown of nails. Umaroth and the other Eldunarí were able to sense some of the spells that Eragon had failed to detect, as well as enlighten them as to which spells should be removed. A piece of Eragon wanted to remove every single spell surrounding the evil mountain, but he knew that that would prove unwise – the whole thing could come tumbling down. Magic was inevitably laced into the very fabric of Alagaësia.

After they had traveled all the way to Aroughs and removed as many spells as necessary, Eragon and Saphira made another journey across the sea, to the island of Beirland, to a small village called Eoam that lay on the opposite coast to the mainland. Eoam sat tucked into a valley between two hills, just touching the edge of the beach. The winds were warm off the sea, and palm trees dotted the beach and the city as they rose up between the houses. There they found only a few spells scattered about, none of them suspicious or threatening, but Galbatorix's reach had indeed extended to this island – Eragon freed all of the inhabitants from their oaths, and then, after resting that night, he and Saphira headed back to the mainland.

When Eragon and Saphira returned to Ilirea he found its population greatly decreased. The elves had all departed for Du Weldenvarden a week before he and Saphira's return, as had the Urgals for their own kingdom, and the Werecats had simply vanished one day. The dwarves had only stayed so that Orik might say his goodbyes to Eragon before departing for the Beors.

"Come to Tronjheim as often as you can, brother," said Orik as he and Eragon tightly embraced.

"I will," Eragon promised. Orik pulled away and clapped Eragon on the arm, giving him a sad smile.

"Remember, not everyone lives forever."

Saphira lowered her head to look Orik in the eye.

_You are a good friend, Orik. _

And it was with an air of melancholy that Eragon watched as Orik raised Volund and the thousands of assembled dwarves gave a last war cry in honor of the joined victory that all had won. After their shout's echo faded from the plains, the dwarves turned and began their march South, their armor and weapons shining in the sun, a cloud of dust rising from their pounding feet. Eragon watched them for a long while, with a heavy feeling in his heart that he couldn't describe. Ever since he had left Carvahall, all those ages ago, he had spent considerable time with men, dwarves, and elves. Alagaësia was so vast, it took a very long time to reach the homes of each race, even if he and Saphira flew alone. Orik's last words to him, though well-meant, had disturbed him.

_Don't worry about that, Eragon, _said Saphira quietly as they watched the dwarven army slowly shrink into the distance and become little more than an inordinate dust cloud.

_How can I not? _Eragon wondered. He leaned his shoulder against her cheek, wrapping his arm under her jaw and rubbing the skin on her nose. She hummed deep in her throat, the vibrations of her voice carrying over into Eragon's chest and touching him with a gentle thrum. _If this life is all any of us have… how will I ever go on when Orik… Roran…. Nasuada, Katrina…. When nearly everyone I care about grows old and dies around us?_

Saphira was quiet and still.

_You will always have me._

Eragon could say nothing more.

Eragon climbed to Saphira's saddle, and together they flew back to the castle.

VVVVVVVV

Nasuada gave Eragon and Saphira a single day of rest before sending them north.

They repeated the same processes that they had done so often already – examining every village and city for malicious spells, and undoing them, along with all oaths of fealty, with the Name.

When they reached Teirm, however, they ran into a problem. Nasuada had warned him of it ahead of time, and it was evident that the situation could quickly get out of hand if Eragon and Saphira weren't careful.

The governor of Teirm had refused to acknowledge Nasuada as the new Queen of the Empire, and had closed Teirm's gates to all envoys. The governor had the full support of the soldiers stationed in his city, and all were at full readiness for battle. The city bristled with the spears of the guards that lined the walls, their armor glittering even from a distance. Nasuada had sent a battalion to be stationed outside of the city, and the soldiers had eagerly greeted Eragon and Saphira when they arrived. His presence did not improve the situation, however. Even when Eragon had removed all of the oaths surrounding the soldiers and the Governor, no one budged. Eragon and Saphira stayed on the outskirts of the city with Nasuada's soldiers for over a week before the situation was contained.

Eragon used magic so that Nasuada and the Governor could talk face to face in a truce outside the city walls, and eventually Nasuada agreed to allow Teirm to function as an independent city-state, provided that they accept the laws that the Empire would make in the future concerning magic. Eragon was curious about why she kept mentioning that little detail in all of her negotiations, but didn't bother to ask her at that moment. He would wait until he returned to Ilirea.

After the matter with Teirm was settled, he and Saphira traveled further north, freeing each village they came across. Each settlement grew progressively smaller as they went.

As the sun set upon another long day, Eragon and Saphira finished releasing the inhabitants of Therinsford from their oaths – they had found no magic. After the Name had left Eragon's lips, he turned to look to the north, where the mountains of the spine narrowed into a steep valley, a valley that held a unique familiarity.

_The sun is not yet gone, _said Saphira, looking in the same direction as he. _Let's go._

They had no need for more words. After Eragon was safe in the saddle, he and Saphira leapt into the skies and sailed northward, to the place where everything had all began.

Carvahall.

VVVVVVVV

The sight did not shock him as it had when he had scried his home from Tronjheim after Ajihad's death – it didn't feel as though he had been stabbed – but the wound left by the sight throbbed again as he recognized the familiar landscape that was now devoid of anything that had made it what it was.

Saphira landed quietly, the whoosh of her wings and the scrape of her talons through the dirt the only sounds that broke the silence covering the area like a heavy blanket.

Eragon slowly descended from Saphira's back, landing softly on his toes, not wishing to break the quiet. It was as though he was visiting a home where someone had recently died. His memories felt like distortions, as though he had imagined where the Tavern had stood, or Horst's forge, or Sloan's butcher shop. Nothing was left, save the marks of the foundations, if you were looking for them.

Far away, deeper into the Spine and hidden by the rolling hills, he knew he would find the place where his home had rested – the place where he had been raised, where he had labored in the fields and grown up playing and fighting with Roran. He didn't regret finding Saphira's egg, even though it had changed his life completely. His only regret was that he had been born in this time, that he hadn't lived in a lifetime beyond his, where dragon riders would be honored again instead of attacked and hunted through all corners of the world.

So much pain would have been avoided…

But without a word Eragon turned away and climbed onto Saphira once more.

The two flew from Carvahall without looking back.

VVVVVVVV

The graveyard that had been Carvahall had left Eragon in a sour mood as they flew east – they had yet to free several of the villages that stood closer to the Hadarac desert. As they soared through the clouds, the trees of the southern edge of Du Weldenvarden crept into view, shimmering and waving in the wind like a thick carpet that lay over the ground to the north. The sight of the trees, even though they themselves were far from the touch of the elves, brought Arya forcefully to his mind.

She had not written to him, had not attempted to speak to him with magic – although, now that he thought about it, that was impossible with the wards that had been placed around the forest – she had not contacted him at all. He had tried to conjure up every possible reason for this. The politics surrounding the election of a new queen were preventing her, since she was Islanzadí's heir and therefore a potential candidate for the throne; she still needed time alone to deal with her grief; …or, she did not wish to continue their friendship.

That thought made Eragon nauseated.

He forced his thoughts to turn back toward matters in Ilirea, but things there were still very complicated. Murtagh was his main concern. He had not been able to speak with him since his outburst at Nasuada's coronation. Thorn's scarlet shape could be seen flying high above and around the city for hours on end, Murtagh undoubtedly on his back, or the two could be found lying far out on the plains, solitary and alone. Eragon had tried to approach them on Saphira's back, but Murtagh and Thorn always avoided him. Eragon knew something had to be done, but he had no idea what.

_Eragon, stop thinking about these things, _Saphira complained, snorting and letting a gout of fire fly from her nostrils. _You're making me depressed._

_ Sorry, _Eragon said quietly.

And they flew onward.

VVVVVVVV

Silence.

Only the sound of the air past his ears and of Thorn's wings as their skin rippled like sails enhanced the quiet as they glided through the night, wafting among the drifting clouds like a lost bird. Murtagh kept his eyes closed, leaning forward in his saddle, resting his upper body on the back of Thorn's neck and laying the side of his face on his hands as they folded together across Thorn's spine. His hair whipped back and forth, snapping and tickling the back of his neck and his face as the winds moved. He breathed slowly and evenly, trying to disappear in Silence and the presence of his best friend that rested within his soul.

He could not have asked for anything better from a friend. Thorn had not asked anything of him, had not hardly spoken, for weeks. He knew that Murtagh needed these long flights, these times of quiet on the plains, away from everything and everyone.

But no matter how much quiet and stillness he enjoyed, there was a fragment deep in the core of his being, a splinter in his mind that quietly tugged at him, threatening to drive him mad, forcing him to wonder what was missing.

Thorn felt concern.

Murtagh brushed his thoughts with warmth. He was calm.

Thorn disagreed, touching a place deep inside him.

Slight agitation.

Thorn stepped back, remained still and steady.

Slow regret.

Returned closeness, like an embrace.

They were quiet for a moment. Thorn turned a little, angling his wings, then continued to glide, the lights of Ilirea glimmering in the west.

A cautious image of Nasuada.

Murtagh shook his head, keeping his eyes closed.

Insistence.

He folded into himself.

….sadness.

Murtagh raised his head.

_Truly?_

_ Yes,_ said Thorn.

They were silent again. Murtagh sat back in his saddle.

Reluctant acquiescence.

Joy. Hope.

Thorn angled his wings and arced to the left, winging to the city with a bugle of happiness. As the spires and buildings of Ilirea grew closer, trepidation emerged and grew within Murtagh like spreading venom from a snakebite.

_All will be well, _Thorn urged, his gaze focused on the peak of the city.

Thorn soared across the boundary of Ilirea and glided to the streets of the second ring. He landed heavily, his talons scratching on the stone and his footsteps thundering. Murtagh swallowed, trying to dispel the lump in his throat, to no avail. He let out a shallow breath and dropped from Thorn's saddle, his boots clopping as he landed and Zar'roc clanking.

He stood at the outer gate of a mansion of white stone. The gate was small and arched, and an outer wall of stone ringed a flowering garden. A grey cobblestone pathway beyond the gate led to a grand staircase flanked by two thin pillars, which rose to meet two massive oaken doors that arched together to a single point twenty feet into the air and were mounted with a pair of brass handles.

This was where Nasuada now lived.

Thorn nudged him in the back with his nose.

VVVVVVVVV

Yep, I'm mean! PLEEEEEASE review! I love reviews. Love them. Give them to me.

...Precious.


	6. The Wall and the Scroll

Thank you so much for the reviews!

Sorry about the time gap again. Life sucks sometimes.

VVVVVVVV

Murtagh's heart began to pound in his throat, as though something was stuck there, forcing him to swallow. The boom of the closing door behind him echoed throughout the entrance chamber like the pound of an executioner's drum. The floor of the marble hall was inlaid with lines of gold, and pillars of rose marble stood on either side, marching across the room. The ceiling was vaulted, like the Helgrind cathedral, and four doors stood adjacent, leading to other parts of the house. Behind Murtagh and to the right of the main door stood a gruff man with long black hair and a scruffy beard who wore a thick broadsword at his left hip, and on the other side of the door stood a Kull, one of them that had remained in Nasuada's service. Both watched him with hard, piercing gazes.

"Wait here," the man said in a low voice. His footsteps were loud against the marble as he strode away, disappearing across the hall and into another chamber.

All Murtagh could hear was the drumroll in his chest; all he could feel was the pounding in his veins.

The silence felt much longer with a Kull standing next to him.

"The Queen will see you," the man grunted as he reappeared. His eyes were narrowed and cold.

Murtagh stepped forward, and felt heavy footsteps vibrate through the marble as the Kull followed him.

The man led him out of the entrance hall and into a sitting room. Inside was a cozy arrangement of plush couches and chairs clothed in golden, embroidered fabric, arranged in a square beside a gently crackling fireplace.

Nasuada sat motionless on the chair opposite the entrance, her legs crossed, a golden tiara glittering in the firelight from where it sat among her black braids. Her skin was the color of rich walnut in the glow of the flames. A red gown shimmered as it hugged her torso and fell down to cover her legs like a waterfall, golden cords woven into intricate knots lining it from top to bottom.

Her eyes were warm as they fell on Murtagh, and he suddenly found himself at once terrified of looking into them and terrified of looking anywhere else.

"Thank you," she said quietly to her two guards. They each bowed and left the room, albeit with equally mistrusting looks at Murtagh. He felt their eyes burn on him like hot coals before they departed.

"Please, sit," said Nasuada, gesturing to the couch across from her. Murtagh softly unfastened Zar'roc from his belt, carefully untying the strands of leather that held it securely in place, and sat where Nasuada indicated, laying his sword across his lap. The jeweled pommel and the wire-wrapped hilt glimmered. Murtagh sat up straight, his muscles too taut to do anything else.

"I'm sorry." The words burst out of him without thought. "I behaved badly at the party. I shouldn't have done what I did."

Nasuada slowly nodded.

"Apology accepted," she murmured.

The silence stretched long and hard between them, neither of them moving. The logs popped as the fire danced through and around them, their cracks deafening in the quiet.

Thorn nudged him with his thoughts, urging him to speak. Murtagh felt spellbound – again his mind was blank. He felt bare in front of Nasuada; he had emptied himself before her at every chance, and now he felt embarrassed, ashamed to be around her.

"Why did you leave?" Nasuada asked. Murtagh kept his eyes on her, unsure of what he would say, but hoping he could say something.

"…I….I don't know."

Nasuada was quiet, waiting. Murtagh shifted in his seat, looking away from her and staring at the fire.

"I didn't like all of the people. People….people scare me."

His voice cracked when he said it. It was something he hadn't wanted to admit.

"Why are you afraid?" she asked, leaning forward.

"Because I can't trust anyone," Murtagh growled. He slid Zar'roc from his lap and stood, striding around the back of the couch. "I feel like everyone is my enemy. And they all hate me, anyway."

"That isn't true," Nasuada protested.

"Really?" Murtagh asked, turning to her. "Why did your guards look at me like that, then?"

"Because you used to serve Galbatorix," she answered quietly.

"Exactly. And I… I cannot stand this any longer. I should have left Alagaësia when I had a mind to, instead of staying here and being tortured for something that I had absolutely no control of."

"I don't want to hurt you."

Murtagh whirled away, running his hands through his hair.

"I feel like I'm going mad! I can't be around anyone, and yet when I'm alone I feel like… like I've been poisoned, and I can't get you-"

He froze.

His throat closed.

Fabric rustled. Nasuada rose behind him.

"Can't get me what?" she asked.

Murtagh lowered his hands. His shadow was dark and tall as it flickered on the wall in front of him.

"I can't get you out of me. I feel afraid of everyone. But I'm more afraid of you."

Footsteps. Her shadow loomed close to his as she stepped to him.

"Murtagh."

She touched his elbow.

He quickly pulled his arm away and turned his head to look at her, his bangs falling in front of his left eye like a curtain.

"We both know what happened between us," she said softly, looking up to him, her gaze resolute and secure.

"That's just it."

"What's just it?"

Murtagh was silent, his heart hammering into a deadly frenzy inside his chest.

"I can't do it."

He brushed past her and headed for the door.

"Murtagh, stop!" Nasuada shouted.

He stopped at the threshold.

"Don't run again," she pleaded. "I may be a Queen, but…I am more than that, as well!"

Thorn's despair was palpable inside his mind.

_Don't._

"I remembered. At the dance," he murmured. He turned back, looking at her over his shoulder. "You are mortal. And… I am not."

Ice.

Dreaded realization.

Nasuada shook her head.

"You do not have to worry about that. I-"

"My life has had enough pain!" Murtagh bellowed. "If we try, all we will get is agony for our troubles!"

"You are the only person… that I have ever truly… needed!" she managed. Her eyes glistened.

"I cannot..." He took a deep breath to try to steady his voice. "I cannot watch you age and die before me. And I could not die with you. I… I could never ask Thorn to die with us, or to stay behind." His lip trembled and his voice shook as he spoke. He bit down, hard, trying to hold everything inside.

He could not look at her as she stared at him with eyes full of despair. A tear, shining like a liquid gemstone, dropped down her cheek.

"I love you," she whispered.

Thorn was holding his breath.

Murtagh swallowed.

"I can't do this. I'm sorry."

He quickly strode over to the couch, snatched up Zar'roc, and stepped out of the room, raising a hand to hide his face, leaving Nasuada standing stock still in the half-light.

VVVVVVVV

He stumbled out of the house and fell to his knees as he passed the gate, his legs unable to support him any longer. His arms shook as he sat on all fours, the stones of the street biting into the palms of his hands.

Thorn's footsteps were quick. They rumbled the earth like a quake and rattled his teeth. The powerful warmth of a dragon's presence surrounded him as Thorn crouched by his side, enclosing him with his wings. Thorn's hot breath wafted through the hair at the side of his head, telling Murtagh Thorn's face was close.

Tears dripped to the stones, dotting them like silent rain.

Acknowledgement of pain. Comfort.

Murtagh pulled himself to his feet and latched onto Thorn's neck like a drowning man grasping at a floating log, burying his face in his dragon's warm scales, weeping.

_You must try._

_ I can't,_ Murtagh begged. _I can't do it._

Thorn's presence was strong and warm, steady and powerful.

_We cannot go on like this. _He touched something deep within Murtagh again, the source of it all – a place of pain and torment and loathing.

Question.

Murtagh tried to steady his breathing, with only a little success. He feared that he would strangle Thorn with his grip, but Thorn didn't seem to mind- he remained motionless. He brought his mind to bear on the answer Thorn was seeking.

He brought an image of a wall to the forefront of his thoughts.

Question.

_I can't…_

_ The poison is inside,_ Thorn murmured. _You _must _let someone in. You must let the wall down._

Murtagh had no answer.

The inexplicable pain was still there, oh yes, but it had begun to lessen slightly. He turned around and leaned back against Thorn, who was only too happy to support his weight.

He needed to talk to someone. Someone other than Nasuada. Someone who could help him… somehow.

He could think of no one for a long while. Thorn was still and quiet, letting him think for himself. Murtagh concentrated on what he needed. He needed someone who had a chance of understanding, and yet would be willing to talk. Someone who could understand his fear of everyone, who shared his experience in battle and could help him fight the shadows that clawed at his thoughts. Eragon came to mind, yes, but…. somehow he wasn't the right choice. At least, not about anything concerning a woman. Yet a person would be much more willing to speak with him if that person was bonded by-

…wait…

VVVVVVVV

Roran's back was sore and worn out from another endless day of patrols.

This had been one of the calmer days, but he was beginning to see the calm days as a curse – they made him even more nervous, forced him to look at all of the rooftops as he walked, watching for the next assassin. He had already lost too many good men to the insurgents that were now the primary problem in the city.

His spirits were lightened, however, by the news that he had just received.

At the close of his day, Nasuada had summoned him to her chambers, in the house on the second ring. When he arrived, she had granted him the title of Earl, and given him lordship over all the land surrounding and including where Carvahall had once stood.

He was still in a daze.

The forest of tents was still very much present outside of the city walls, even if the dwarves and the elves had left. There were still too many people to stuff into Ilirea. After things had completely stabilized, including the establishment of an army, Roran assumed that those who did not wish to continue serving would be free to return to wherever they had once lived.

"Katrina," he murmured huskily as he stepped into his tent. She quickly turned to him with a glittering smile, holding a piece of parchment in her hand. She looked about to say something, but when she saw the look on his face, her eyes widened and she paused.

"What is it? What's happened?" she asked, sensing his excitement. He drew her close and kissed her sharply on the mouth.

"Nasuada made me Earl of Carvahall," he said with a grin as he pulled away.

Katrina's jaw went slack.

"_Earl?_" she repeated.

"We'll be going home," Roran exclaimed, and pressed his lips to hers again.

They pulled away from each other again, their lips making a little smack as they parted.

"I can't believe it," she said quietly, looking up to him in admiration and wonder.

"I wish father could see us now," Roran said quietly.

They were quiet, enjoying the bliss of the moment and the warmth of each other's arms.

"When will we go?" Katrina asked.

"After Nasuada releases everyone," Roran answered. "I am certain they will all want to return."

"I have no doubt of it," Katrina agreed. Then her eyes lit up. "Oh! I forgot. This came for you," she said, holding up the piece of parchment that she had been keeping in her hand this whole time.

Roran took it from her. It was folded, and had been sealed with red wax, pressed with an unadorned stamp. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, revealing a short message inscribed in scribbled handwriting.

Cousin,

Will you meet with me tomorrow? I must speak with you.

Murtagh

VVVVVVVV

Eragon was quiet as he stood before Nasuada. Daylight shone through the arching windows, slightly paling everything that it touched as it cast its beams across Nasuada's desk. The scent of fresh grass and leaves blew through the window on the breeze, ruffling the parchment piled on Nasuada's desk slightly.

"It's the best thing for all of Alagaësia," she pressed.

"…I can see where your thinking lies," Eragon said carefully, "but I am afraid of the implications."

"Magic must be regulated in some way," Nasuada argued. "Galbatorix may have been mad, but this was his one sound idea. Whoever has magic has power over everyone else, in a way nothing else can counter."

"The same could be said of an excellent swordsman," Eragon countered.

"That is not the same."

"There is something you're not considering," Eragon continued, his brow furrowing in thought. "We have spent too long fearing Galbatorix because of his Eldunarí. You cannot use magic, so you do not know what it is like, but for those who can, learning it is extremely difficult. When Brom first had me cast a spell, it took almost all of my energy and concentration just to lift a pebble. Unless you have Eldunarí, Magic takes from the user-"

"The same amount of energy as it would to actually perform the act. I know," said Nasuada, waving a dismissive hand. "But what of the spells you used in the battle on the Burning Plains? You killed entire battalions with a single word, and you didn't even look tired."

"Those words are not commonly known. Oromis was the one who taught them to me, and I suspect the Elves and I are the only ones who know them."

"And Murtagh?" Nasuada asked. "Does he?"

"I have not asked."

Nasuada was quiet. She shook her head.

"There are too many variables."

"Nasuada… I ask you to trust me," Eragon said quietly, stepping forward. "Trust the Riders."

"You cannot be everywhere," said Nasuada, raising an eyebrow. "And it will be many years before we have enough Riders to protect everyone."

"What about Murtagh? Doesn't he count?"

A shadow passed over her features.

"I do not believe he is ready."

Eragon crossed his arms, looking down and thinking for a moment, then looked back up to her.

"Give me some more time, and I will try to conjure up some ideas," he acquiesced.

"You will not help me by using the Name, then?"

"Not unless I have to."

Nasuada sighed, her shoulders slumping.

"Very well," she said, putting her hands on her hips. Eragon nodded and bowed to her, then turned and left, his boots clopping on the marble floor.

"Oh, and Eragon?" she called after him. He turned. "While you think on that, could you also think of what might be done with the Urgals?"

"Done with them?" Eragon repeated, looking at her askance.

"Forgive me – that was worded incorrectly," she said, sitting down behind her desk. "I meant – in regards to their warlike mindset. I don't take Nar Garzhvog's warning lightly.

I do not want to end a war with Galbatorix and begin another with the Urgals."

"From what I studied of Urgals when I was in Ellesméra, all attempts to change them in the past have failed. Many of the elven scholars have said that it is impossible," said Eragon.

Nasuada threw him a wry smile.

"Well… I think you've proven yourself quite able to accomplish the impossible, don't you?"

VVVVVVV

The night was still and dark. Eragon lay quietly in his bed, a single sheet covering him, his waking dreams dancing in his thoughts like a play of the mind.

A gentle rustle interrupted him. He opened his eyes to the darkness of his and Saphira's room. He quietly sat up. Saphira lay across from him, in a very large room of her own, her tail curled around her and her wings tucked close. He looked around, listening carefully for what had disturbed him.

It happened again. He flicked his head to the right, to the window. There, sitting on the windowsill, bathed in the moonlight, sat a miniature scroll of parchment that he knew had not been there when he had gone to bed. Eragon rose from his bed and brushed Saphira's mind.

_What is it?_ She asked, instantly awake. She raised her head and scanned the room, her eyes fierce.

_I'm not sure,_ Eragon answered. He checked all of the wards he had placed around his doors and his windows before he had fallen asleep, and found them all still intact. He turned to the piece of parchment. Whatever it was, none of his wards had detected it as a threat.

The parchment rustled as it was pushed along the stone by an errant breeze. Eragon stepped over to the window and waved a hand over the parchment, his palm flashing a silver glow as he cast a spell to determine if there was anything threatening about it. When he cast his mind to it, all he found was a single spell, designed to fly it to this location. Eragon frowned and picked up the scroll. Saphira watched him interestedly as he pulled it open.

Inside the scroll were elvish glyphs, written in a clear and neat hand. It was a riddle, inscribed in four lines:

_Where not-of-family kindred met_

_ Where lights arose on darkened land_

_ Where stone reflects the brightest eye_

_ Where pale life rose from silver hand_

_What does it mean? _Saphira asked.

Eragon smiled.

VVVVVVVV

I'm mean again!

Please review! I love all of them!


	7. Arget

I'm so sorry about the long wait! Here you go!

VVVVVVV

The wind was cool upon Eragon's face as he leaned forward on Saphira's back, adjusting his legs in the saddle. Her wings flapped gently and steadily as she navigated the breezes, the greens and browns of the rugged hills zooming past far below them. Eragon relaxed into her saddle, swaying forward and back to the stride of her wings without thought. He wore a comfortable, loose shirt of soft cotton and a leather jerkin, as well as comfortably fitting cloth pants and boots.

_Are you sure you interpreted it correctly? _Saphira asked him again.

_Absolutely,_ Eragon answered, and left it at that. He had gone over the riddle multiple times just to be sure, but there was no doubt in his mind that the answer was the same as he had thought on his first reading.

He and Saphira had left Ilirea two days ago, and had been traveling southward ever since. They were close to their destination – very close. Only an hour ago they had passed Dras-Leona. He had spied Helgrind far below, its black spires stabbing up at them, and he again had a mind to return and undo all of the spells that formed Helgrind's illusion; though in its innermost circle the religion of Helgrind knew that they were feeding the Ra'zac, the rest of the faith truly believed that mutilating themselves was the key to eternal life. With their high priests dead, the religion was weakened; perhaps if Eragon removed the spells that made Helgrind the fierce testament that it was, it would die off completely.

The grassy hills below were unremarkable, as alike as all the rest, but something about them stuck out to Eragon. It seemed Saphira felt it too, but hers was more distant – it had been much longer for her since she had been to this particular place.

The sparkling of the sun glinted like a brilliant star from a point on a single hill, glimmering and piercing Eragon's eyes with enough strength to force him to look away. Saphira didn't need to ask him. She dropped her head and swept downward.

The ground rushed up to them, giving Eragon a small buzz of adrenaline. Saphira spread her wings wide and raised her talons as the grassy hill grew close. Her footsteps rumbled on the earth as she touched down, her claws digging into the dirt as she landed at a jog, relaxedly flapping her wings before folding them in to her sides. Eragon relaxed the grip of his legs on Saphira's neck and swung his left leg up and over, letting himself fall from her saddle and land on his toes beside her foreleg.

Not ten feet away from him stood the answer to the third line of Arya's riddle – the tribute of his lost identity; the place where one short life had ended and another had begun.

Enclosed in a square of pure, flawless crystal lay Brom, unchanged as on the day Saphira had worked her magic. Through the transparent stone that shone in the sun Eragon could see the old man's familiar features, wrinkled and worn, long beard white upon his chest, his eyes closed as though sleeping. At his head stood a resolute epitaph, still bearing an un-weathered inscription that Eragon himself had carved by the ancient language:

Here Lies Brom

Who was a Dragon Rider

And Like a Father

To Me

May His Name Live On In Glory

Eragon slowly approached the place where his old teacher – his father – lay. His bootsteps crunched down the grass as he walked, bending them flat along his path, and a gentle breeze brushed through his hair, softly whistling over the rolling hills like a distant voice in the quiet. He tried to keep his feet steady.

He came to stand beside Brom's grave, looking down at him through the stone. He softly fell to his knees, placing a hand on the coffin's sharp edge.

"Look at us, old man," Eragon murmured, his voice cracking a little as he spoke. "Look at us now."

Everything was soft and silent.

Eragon raised his head to look at the epitaph he had written so long ago. With a few words in the ancient language, it washed away, and a new one took its place:

Here Lies Brom

A Rider bonded to the dragon Saphira

Son of Holocomb and Nelda

Beloved of Selena

Beloved Father of Eragon Shadeslayer

Founder of the Varden

Bane of the Forsworn

May his name live Forever

It was less personal than the first, but Eragon was proud of it – Brom would have liked it better, he thought. Everything had been revealed. The boy that had written the first inscription had known nothing of the world, or of the man he was burying – now Brom's final story was complete.

For a very long time Eragon knelt next to the crystal grave, his hand resting upon it. A great sense of longing overtook him as he looked down into his father's face. So much had changed from what it should have been. He swallowed.

"Atra einnhverr sem freista eom haína stenr thornessa deyja," he whispered with purpose, channeling the magic to draw its power from the grass and the earth, should the curse that he had just laid need be enacted.

Saphira approached Brom's tomb and touched her nose to it. For a moment it shimmered as her scales brushed against it, as though acknowledging its creator.

_Farewell,_ she murmured.

"I wish we could have truly known you... father."

Eragon climbed atop her back once more and, with a mighty flap of her wings, the two soared into the skies again and left the shining landmark behind.

_Where now? _Saphira asked after a minute of somber silence had passed.

_East,_ Eragon answered, looking forward as they rose into the skies.

_How do you know where you are going?_

_ Arya's riddle left a trail of sorts, _Eragon said quietly. _'Where not-of-family kindred met' was where she and I met each other when I was returning from Helgrind. The third line was Brom's tomb: 'Where stone reflects the brightest eye.' The brightest eye-_

_ -is the sun. Go on, _said Saphira.

_The second and fourth are where she wants us to go next, _Eragon continued. _Though I have no idea why._

_ How will you know when we are there? _Saphira wondered.

_Look for gold._

Flying on Saphira's back was much faster than walking this area had been. In only a few silent minutes Saphira spoke again.

_I see something._

_ Where?_ Eragon joined her mind and looked through her eyes- though her vision picked up more blues than his human gaze, she had easily spotted a collection of tiny specks glittering among the duller grasses of the hills laid out before them.

_Go down to them, _said Eragon. Saphira ducked her head again and they descended.

When they had landed again, Eragon looked down from his high perch on Saphira's shoulders with a smile.

Scattered across the crest of the hill upon which Saphira now stood were just under a dozen tiny lilies made of solid gold, their gilded petals sparkling in the afternoon sun. To the right of the group stood a single full-grown golden lily, the one that Eragon had sung for Arya and that the spirits had turned to living gold as a reward for freeing their brethren that had been trapped within Durza. Arya had been right: it had produced fertile seeds.

Eragon took a deep, refreshing breath, smelling the rich soil, the dust of the hills, and the autumn scent of the plains grass. And he waited.

Surely Arya had expected him to leave as soon as he had received her message? But… why so far from Ilirea? In fact, where he now stood was a good one hundred leagues the opposite direction from Ellesméra. What was her plan in bringing him here?

"Arya?" Eragon asked. He reached out with his mind and scanned the surrounding area. He frowned. There was nothing that immediately caught his attention.

Eragon sat down beside the golden lilies, and Saphira lay down as well. The two of them waited in silence.

_Are you _sure _you interpreted it correctly?_

_ There is no other interpretation, _said Eragon stubbornly, snapping off a stalk of grass and twisting it between his fingers. _You can see my memories as well as I can see yours. Do you see any other answer?_

Eragon paused while he felt her consciousness running over his mind, sifting through the moments he and Arya had spent together at this place. A slow feeling of glee filled her as she withdrew.

_What?_ Eragon asked, looking up to her curiously.

_Now I see why she sent you here,_ said Saphira, smiling at him with her eyes.

_What?_ Eragon repeated.

Saphira chuckled in her throat and turned away.

_Think of the gift that you gave her._

He looked down, letting out a quick breath, lost in thought.

"Eragon."

Eragon jumped to his feet and whirled, his heart leaping in his chest.

"Arya!"

There she stood directly behind him, her raven hair flicking her shoulder as the wind ran through it. She wore a loose-fitting elven robe of fine green and gold fabric, with a golden belt girded her waist. A light smile graced her lips.

He had never been more glad to see her.

"Arya," he repeated. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, suddenly feeling utterly at ease. To his surprise, he felt her strong arms fold around his back as well. After a moment of closeness he pulled away, a laughing smile on his face.

"I solved your riddle, it seems," he said. She smiled back.

"It would appear so," she agreed.

_Arya, you scared me,_ said Saphira, nodding to her in greeting.

Arya laughed, her voice like the ringing of a crystal bell.

"I confess that was partially my intent," she said.

Eragon stared at her in wonderment. He had never seen Arya like this – so carefree, so willing to smile. He supposed it may have been because, since ever he'd known her, they had always been dancing short distances from death's claws. Now that they were free, a shadow had been lifted.

"How have you been?" Eragon asked quietly. She nodded briefly.

"Better. I am better than I was."

"Good."

An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. They looked away from each other.

"Eragon-"

"Arya-"

They paused, having spoken at the same time. She held up her hand, looking to him.

"I am sorry. After all that we have been through, I should not have turned you away after I found out about my mother. My inequity only grew when I left for Ellesmera. I was wrong. I beg your forgiveness."

"You know I would do nothing but accept you," Eragon immediately answered in a warm tone. Arya blinked, a flicker of some indefinable expression crossing her face. "Arya," Eragon continued. "You've…" he gestured towards her, unsure of how to say it. "You have come alive. What happened in Ellesméra? And why did you ask me to come here instead of meeting me at Teirm, or the Anora river?"

Arya looked to the surrounding hills with a glow in her eyes. In the far distance, Brom's tomb could still be seen atop one of the hills as a star glimmering in the daylight.

"This place is fitting for many reasons. But mainly…" she turned back to him. Her face was close to him, her eyes fierce and bright. "for this:"

She slowly held out her right hand. Even in the full light of day, a dim silver nimbus glowed about her palm.

Silver.

_Silver!_

The skin of her hand glimmered just as his own had for years. His breath caught in his chest. Saphira snorted in shock.

"_Arya?_" Eragon gasped, looking up to her with wide eyes. Her glee was palpable in the air, strikingly visible in the full, mischievous smile that made her face shine. The silver skin of her palm ceased to glow, and behind her, wavering into view like a mirage in the desert, an emerald dragon appeared. He would have had to have been standing as still as a statue, for not even Eragon, with his heightened senses, had noticed any disturbances in the air or the grass where the dragon had invisibly waited, cloaked under Arya's spell.

The dragon's scales were a brilliant emerald green that glimmered in the light of the sun like gemstones. He was smaller than Saphira, but held his head erect and proud. He had a set of strong, muscled wings folded gracefully at his sides, and his yellow eyes were gentle and smiling as they looked down upon him.

Eragon simply stared, mouth agape.

"This is Fírnen," said Arya, smiling at him and gesturing to her dragon with a wave of her hand.

Firnen slowly bobbed his head.

_Atra esterní ono thelduin, _said Fírnen. His voice was higher than Thorn's, a rich, velvety tone that singers and bards would have desperately coveted.

_Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr,_ Eragon managed.

_Un du evarínya ono varda, Eragon-Elda,_ Fírnen finished. He looked to Arya for a long moment, and Arya to him. Saphira had her eyes fixed on him, and Eragon did as well. He could not force himself to accept what he was seeing. His mind was blank.

Then Arya looked back to him, and a grin began to creep at the corners of his mouth.

"This," he said. "This is why."

Arya nodded.

"He hatched for me just as we entered Ellesméra. I was seriously considering disappearing into the woods forever, but… Fírnen would never have allowed that." She reached out and rubbed his nose affectionately.

Saphira nudged him with her thoughts.

"Oh!" said Eragon, remembering himself. He stepped over to her. "Fírnen, this is-"

_Saphira,_ he finished, stepping over to her. His talons were soft on the earth, only audible as a gentle rumble, like the movement of a distant ocean on the beach. He stopped in front of her, his head held high and regal, his gentle eyes looking directly into hers. _Now we are three._

_ Now we are three,_ Saphira quietly agreed. She shuffled her shoulders and glanced to the skies. Fírnen looked back to Arya.

_May we? _He asked.

_Oh, you have a lot to learn about being a dragon!_ Saphira exclaimed, and burst into the air, her wings blotting out the sun as she spread them, flapping them downward and flattening all the grass around in a fierce wind as she powered into the sky and glided across the hills, her shadow trailing underneath her by the angle of the sun. Arya grinned and nodded to Fírnen. He let out a bugle and took off at a run, spreading his wings and leaping skyward to join Saphira, who was already beginning to circle high above.

Eragon and Arya watched their dragons for a long while. The dragons' scales flashed as they turned this way and that, circling around each other, chasing and roaring with delight, their shouts echoing down to the earth as they played on the winds. Eragon eventually looked down to the grass, then turned to Arya again.

"I cannot believe it," he said finally.

"I cannot believe it either, to be honest," Arya agreed. "He is… in a single hour he was one of my greatest friends."

"That is how it is between dragon and rider," said Eragon.

"Can you remember what it was like to be without her?" she asked.

Eragon shook his head.

"It was different. But if I look back on it now, I wonder how I ever survived without her as a part of me."

They were quiet again. After a long while of watching their dragons glide about overhead, they settled into the grass beside the golden lilies.

"What news from Ellesméra?" Eragon asked. "Have you chosen a king or queen yet?"

"It was decided a week ago. Lord Däthedr is now King of the Elves."

Eragon sighed in relief.

"I had thought they might consider you, as you are Islanzadí's daughter."

"They did, until Fírnen hatched. Then my candidacy was out of the question – no rider should rule over anyone. I did not want the throne, in any case. I never did."

Another silence consumed the next minute. Eragon broke off a second piece of grass and tied it in a knot. He found himself tempering his nerve, daring to begin saying what he thought he would never say again.

"Arya," he murmured, looking down at the grass. She flicked her head to him.

"Yes?" she asked quietly. He looked up, then turned to see into her eyes.

"Aside from Saphira and Roran, you have known me longer than anyone else alive."

"Yes, I have," she agreed.

Eragon took a steadying breath.

"A few years ago, I was an idiot on a foolish quest, guided by my own whims. But… in your eyes, who am I now?"

Her eyes were sharp and focused as she paused, looking into his gaze.

"You are Eragon Shadeslayer; you are hero of Alagaësia."

"Beyond that," Eragon softly pressed.

She waited, looking deeply into him. His heart was still inside him, waiting desperately for the only answer he could accept.

"You… you are a man."

Eragon's heart soared at the beauty of her words, his every nerve afire. He adjusted the way he was sitting, laying one leg flat against the earth in order to turn towards her.

"Arya… would you hear my true name?" He asked. She turned away for a moment.

"I… you know what the sharing of names means."

"I know with all of my heart."

She looked back to him.

"Tell me."

He leaned close to her. Her skin smelled of lavender and fallen leaves as he brought his lips close to her ear. With a slow breath, he whispered his true name. The core of his being shivered like the striking of a bell as the words left his mouth, and he was not afraid. Arya's name was within his true self, a fiber of his being, and now she would know. He leaned away and found a small, gentle smile upon her face. And with a movement as smooth as flowing water, her hair cascading from her shoulders, she leaned close to him and told him hers.

The words of her name seemed to make the air shimmer around him. He could feel every syllable ring inside him, his own soul communing with hers.

The dragons kept at their flight in the distant skies, brilliant creatures dancing in the blue sky like living banners. Arya and Eragon sat close to one another, looking into each other's eyes. There were no words between them – how could any words be said when each knew the other's heart like no one else could?

Their hands were entwined.

VVVVVVVV

Was that nice or what? Review, please!

Ilian Agaetí Chrísti!


	8. Gold

I'm so sorry about the long wait, everyone! Christmas, New years, ten-hour days, all that jazz. Anyway, here you go!

VVVVVVVV

Murtagh walked slowly through the Varden camp, keeping furtive eyes on everyone he passed. Almost all gave him at least a second look. Very few did not pause to stare. Thorn walked at his side, as usual. All around were the sounds of bustling people about their daily work. There was talk that Nasuada would soon disband the Varden and fold everyone who wished to remain in her service into the Imperial army. Everyone who did not wish to be a soldier would be freed from any oaths, and from then on their destinies would be their own.

Even though he had only been a part of the Varden for a short while, that idea itself made Murtagh nervous. Soon he would be cut off as well, he could feel, and he did not know what he would do then. There was no Order for him to join, no cause to fight for, no place to belong. And now, though the thought had once appealed to him, the idea of living the rest of his endless life in complete solitude sounded wretched and sorrowful.

Soon he saw his destination: outside of one of the many tents that lined the path he now walked, making a makeshift street, sat his cousin, Roran, whom he had never met. His first impression of him surprised Murtagh – he looked almost nondescript for someone who had purportedly slayed hundreds and had masterminded some of the most improbable victories in the history of Alagaësia.

Murtagh and Thorn slowly approached him where he sat on a log, whittling the bark off a branch with a short knife. He rose when he saw them, setting down his knife and wood and extending his hand.

"Murtagh," he said simply.

"Roran." Murtagh took his hand. Even through his own gloves, Murtagh could feel the thick calluses on Roran's grip.

"It is good to finally meet you, cousin." They let go of each other's hands and Roran looked up to Thorn. "And Thorn. It is good to meet you as well. Forgive me – I haven't yet learned to speak with my thoughts on my own-"

_It is fine. Not many can,_ said Thorn, nodding._ Well met, Roran._

With all pleasantries behind them, Roran gestured to the grass.

"Please, sit."

Murtagh threw back his cloak and sat, laying it about him and adjusting Zar'roc so that its hilt lay more in his lap.

"So," said Roran as he sat, looking at him directly. "What do you need to speak to me about?"

Murtagh sat back a little, resting his forearm on his knee, unsure of where to begin.

-Insecure. Uncertain.

-Encouragement.

"I thought that you, of everyone here, could answer a question. You are the most similar to me."

Roran looked a little baffled.

"In what way?"

"You have experienced the most battle."

"I wouldn't say that," Roran answered.

"In the way that you were forced to kill because of necessity, not because of your own choice," Murtagh clarified.

Roran was quiet for a moment.

"Yes. That is a good description," he agreed.

Murtagh gave him a hard look.

"Neither Thorn nor I can shake the… the shadows that haunt us. We came… to find out how you survive every day."

Roran sighed through his nose.

"I doubt that anything that I have experienced amounts to your horrors," Roran admitted.

"Please," Murtagh urged. Both his and Thorn's eyes were fixed on Roran's.

Roran looked from one to the other for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence.

"I often see the faces of the men I've killed," Roran agreed. "I hear the sound of their bones crunching under my hammer. For a long while I was plagued by thoughts of whom I had deprived of a father, or a son."

"Did you feel afraid?" Murtagh asked quietly. His muscles were tense, he was sitting so still. Thorn was likewise motionless beside him.

Roran's eyes narrowed as he looked at Murtagh, as though examining his thoughts.

"Afraid of what?"

Murtagh looked down at his knees.

"It is hard to describe. Every time an opportunity presents itself to be around others, I immediately wish to avoid it."

"It was like that for a short while afterward, yes," said Roran.

_A short while_, Thorn repeated, inclining his head towards Roran.

Murtagh's head snapped up.

"You say that as though it has already passed," he swiftly observed.

Roran shrugged.

"I suppose it was because I had to be around people. My village. The Varden. Another would be that I was desperately trying to be with one person in particular."

_Your wife,_ said Thorn.

"She wasn't then, but yes," Roran said with a nod and a small smile.

Murtagh kept up his fierce gaze at Roran. Roran was easily returning it.

"What do you do when you are afraid of who you love?"

Roran leaned forward and gave him a look of utter confusion.

"You have lost me. Why would you be afraid?"

"I…. er….. Nasuada and I…" Murtagh couldn't find the right words.

_He loves Nasuada, and she him, _Thorn finished, giving Murtagh a slightly irritated glance.

Roran blinked and sat up.

"Well… that's excellent!" he said. "When did this happen?"

"When we were both imprisoned," said Murtagh.

"Did she say that she loved you?" Roran asked.

"Yes," Murtagh admitted, looking away.

"And what did you say?"

Murtagh didn't answer.

_He ran._

Roran twitched in surprise.

"You ran," he repeated.

"Not in so many words," Murtagh growled, shooting Thorn a glare. Thorn shrugged his shoulders.

"You left?"

Murtagh bit his lip. He nodded.

"I realized, at the coronation, that she was mortal. I am not. She will age and die, while I will look the same as I do now, watching her wither." He looked up, his eyes full of despair. "I am at a loss. What do I do?"

Roran thought for a moment.

"I don't think there is anything that would keep me from being with Katrina. Not even that."

_What will you do… when she dies?_ Thorn pressed.

"I secretly hope that I die before her," said Roran. "But since that option isn't available to you, I would say that I would go on. She would want that. And, I would also savor every moment that I could have with her."

Murtagh put his hands to his face and sighed.

"All right. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this."

"Go to her and apologize."

Murtagh shook his head, lowering his hands.

"That's what I was doing when I came to her the first time."

"Then I don't know. I honestly didn't have to work very hard to win Katrina."

"For goodness sake!"

They both jumped and looked to the source of the voice. Katrina whipped open the tent flap and marched out to Roran.

"You had better take that back, husband, or you and I will be having some words!"

Roran looked genuinely surprised. He raised his hands in surrender.

"All right! I take it back." He looked to Murtagh. "I just meant-"

"What do I do?" Murtagh interrupted. She turned to him.

"Is she the one for you?" Katrina asked simply, deftly inserting herself into the conversation as though she had been there the whole time.

"There is no other that I can think of."

She quickly shook her head.

"That answer is not good enough."

Murtagh swallowed.

"There is no one that could ever complete me – complete us," he amended, looking to Thorn, "aside from her."

Katrina grinned.

"That is much better."

"Murtagh," said Roran, "I would say that you should just -"

"Ap-!" Katrina shouted, snapping up a hand. "Silence, Roran. You do not know anything. Murtagh, there is only one thing you need to consider: what does every woman want?"

Murtagh and Roran looked at each other. Roran shrugged, shaking his head. Katrina stared at them both. Murtagh looked up at Thorn. Thorn huffed and shook his head as well.

_Do not look at me – I know nothing of human courtship rituals._

Murtagh smiled.

Katrina threw up her hands, exasperated.

"What every woman wants," she said, bending towards him, "is something _romantic._"

Murtagh found himself smiling. It was so simple. Just as he had wished. The world tried to complicate everything into oblivion, but with Katrina's advice all of the unnecessary details had been stripped away.

He looked down to the ground, lowered his right hand, and began to murmur in the ancient language.

"Ór, rïsa. Moi. Atra sem unin iet auga hugr waíse sjonro vel thornessa hringr. Atra thornessa ór waíse harth líki bjartstál, un moi onitha wiol Nasuada Drottning."

Thorn, Roran and Katrina watched him interestedly as what he now held in his hand took shape. After the magic had completed its work, he held up his creation.

"Something like this?"

VVVVVVVV

The night was warm and perfect. Murtagh had spent the rest of the day making the proper preparations, such as rehearsing with Thorn and selecting what he would wear, as well as composing a slow-written letter to Nasuada, about which Katrina had been happy to advise. It read:

Nasuada,

It would please the both of us beyond all imaginings if you would meet with us this evening. There is a question of great importance that we wish to ask. If it is agreeable to you, we will call upon you an hour after the sun sets.

Murtagh and Thorn

Murtagh had chosen a black velvet cape with a red hem and pleated shoulders, and underneath it a dark brown jerkin with silver fastenings. Zar'roc hung at his waist from the same elaborate belt he had worn at the coronation, and he wore loose-fitting pants and comfortable, shiny black boots with soft soles. He swallowed, and tried to calm the beating of his frantic heart. He didn't want to have shaking hands when he saw Nasuada again.

He stepped forward with as much purpose as he could muster, marching for the front door of Nasuada's mansion. It was curious how a mere fifteen yards could stretch into miles as he walked – the door seemed to grow further and further away with each step. But before long he found himself walking up her front steps and striding up to her door.

He raised a hand, pausing. He glanced back. Thorn stood outside the front gate, watching him. Thorn nodded encouragingly. Murtagh nodded back, then turned to the door.

He knocked.

The sound of his knuckles rapping on the wood sounded like thunder. He could hear it echoing in the entrance hall beyond. He stepped carefully back, folding his arms behind him, pinning his cape to his sides.

After a few moments he heard the light touches of quiet feet on stone pattering closer. There was a pause, and then the door clicked and creaked open.

The familiar light of torches streamed from the doorway, illuminating the one who stood in it. Nasuada was bathed from behind in the golden light, which shimmered along the edges of her form like liquid gold. She wore a simple-cut, maroon dress patterned with embroidery of silver vines and leaves winding around it. Her sleeves were cut short, as was her custom, so that at all times her scars from the Trial of Long Knives could be seen. The air about her was scented with oranges and lilies. Her expression was strange to him – it was not easily readable. Excitement was not evident on her face, but neither was she aloof. She seemed to be simply watching him, reading him even though he couldn't read her.

"Nasuada," he said quietly. "I am glad to find you free tonight."

"I was glad to receive your letter," she answered.

He extended a hand, and she took it. Her skin was warm to his fingers, and smooth as the silk of her dress. He smiled and brought her closer to him, then turned and led her down the stairs and across the garden path to the gate. Thorn stood waiting, his head held high and regal.

"Good evening, Thorn," she said with a gentle smile.

_Good evening, Nasuada._ And he slowly lay down, the ground rumbling. Nasuada looked at Murtagh, a little bemused.

"What did you wish to ask me?" she asked. Murtagh gave her a small smile.

"First- " he easily climbed up into Thorn's saddle, settled himself in, and extended a hand to her. "Would you please?"

Nasuada blinked.

"You want me to ride?"

Murtagh slowly nodded, not lowering his arm.

She raised her eyebrows, then lifted her dress and began to climb up Thorn's foreleg. Thorn remained perfectly still so that she wouldn't fall, keeping a close eye on her. She grasped Murtagh's hand, and he easily pulled her up to sit behind him. She swung one leg over and sat with a leg on either side of Thorn's spine, despite her dress.

Though the saddle was not designed for two, they managed. She wrapped her arms about his waist, and as soon as Murtagh felt she was secure, Thorn spread his massive wings powered them down, gently lifting off from the ground and sweeping into the sky.

Murtagh's heart rate slowed down as they left the ground behind. Nasuada was pressed firmly against his back, her arms comfortingly tight around his waist, as Thorn gained height. He could feel the braids of her hair pressing against his neck, mingling with the wavings of his own hair as the wind moved around them.

The torches and candles of the city glimmered like orange stars beneath them as they left the city far below them. Thorn stretched his wings wide, the membranes rippling as the air swept underneath them, and arced to the left, rising up to the plateau that curved over the top of Ilirea like a cresting wave. Soon the light of the city was nothing but a dim flickering, and the stars and the moon outshone it, bathing the rolling landscape with silver. Murtagh looked up to the skies and closed his eyes. It felt good to have Nasuada with them. Thorn had been right about this method of travel.

Thorn spread his wings wide again as they descended toward the top of the plateau, and gently landed upon it, jostling the riders on his back only briefly. Murtagh helped Nasuada dismount, then dropped down after her.

They were quiet. Nasuada stepped through the grass, her feet crunching it down with each footfall. She looked around, then looked back to him and Thorn.

"It is very quiet up here," she commented.

"Sit with me?" Murtagh asked. She nodded and stepped close to him. The two of them sat down and Thorn, with a little adjustment, lay down beside them, allowing them to rest their backs on his flank if they wished.

They were silent for a very long time. They looked up at the stars, at the band that clustered close together and danced across the skies like a celestial river. Murtagh thought that he had run out of things to say, but now words flowed easily from his thoughts to his lips.

"I used to come here often, as a boy," he said, still looking to the skies. "Since it was directly above the city, it wasn't technically out of Galbatorix's bounds. I know now that he was always watching me to make sure I didn't escape, so I suppose he knew that that wasn't my intention when I came up here. I wasn't brave enough to attempt that then, anyway. I would sit for hours, looking up at the stars, and wondering."

"Wondering what?" Nasuada asked.

Murtagh chuckled lightly to himself.

"Wondering about the day that I would be free. When a Rider would appear again and save me." He looked down. "Fate is strange, that we would save ourselves."

Thorn rumbled warmly.

After a moments' hesitation, Nasuada slowly angled her head to rest upon his shoulder.

Murtagh went still. His every nerve was alight with a quiet energy, like a collection of shimmering candles. Thorn, too, had become motionless.

"I'm glad that I know you, Murtagh," said Nasuada.

The rise and fall of Thorn's flank had ceased. Only Nasuada appeared relaxed.

_Now?_ Murtagh whispered.

_ Now._

Careful not to disturb the way Nasuada sat, Murtagh gently reached his hand into his pants pocket and took hold of an object that had waited there.

"Nasuada," he breathed.

She took her head off of his shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"Yes?" she answered in a voice just as soft.

He pulled himself away from her, taking his hand out of his pocket and keeping the object hidden within his fist. Thorn lowered his head so that he was looking at Nasuada as well.

"I know… that I am breaking at least one very important rule. But I think I know that you don't care."

_Without the only one who knows us, we are only half of ourselves, _said Thorn.

A look of realization began to dawn on Nasuada's face.

Murtagh sat up and raised the object for her to see.

A ring of pure gold, reinforced by magic, resided in between his thumb and index fingers, glittering in the light of the stars. On its surface was carved images of forests, rivers, mountains and waterfalls, a miniature mural of impossible detail on the inside and outside of the band.

"_Will you marry me?_" said Murtagh and Thorn in unison.

Her eyes were bright. He could see the stars reflected in them.

She laughed.

Her laugh did not offend him in the slightest. He knew exactly what it meant, by the joyful ringing in his ears. She held out her left hand, tears spilling over her cheeks, a beautiful smile of intense, pure joy on her face.

"Yes. Yes!"

He slid the ring he had made on her finger and she threw her arms around him.

"I love you, Nasuada."

She let go of him with one arm and pulled Thorn's head closer so that she could hug them both. He brought his forehead to press against the two of them as all three embraced, and he enfolded them with his wings. Murtagh smiled, squeezing his eyes closed as he pressed Nasuada and Thorn close to him.

The wall had fallen.

Surrendering had never before made anyone so happy.

VVVVVVVV

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	9. The Future of Freedom

I'm so sorry for the delay. WRITER'S BLOCK! GAAAAAAA!

VVVVVVVV

When Eragon and Arya returned to Ilirea, the entire city erupted in shouts of surprise. People flooded the streets to stare as Saphira and Fírnen landed within the walls by the city gates. Eragon had thought it would be a good idea for them to show Fírnen off a little – it would be a good sign for the people that the day of the Dragon Riders' return to glory was closer than they had thought.

He and Arya dismounted their dragons, and the four of them began to walk up the road, heading slowly towards Nasuada's mansion high on the second-highest ring. A mass of people followed behind them, and continued to grow as new followers emerged from the homes and shops that they passed. All around echoed the dull roar of hundreds of excited murmurings. Children gasped in amazement at Fírnen's beautiful scales, which sparkled and cast emerald reflections on the stones close to him. Eragon smiled at the children. Who knew? There was an excellent chance that he was looking at numerous future Dragon Riders.

Arya and Fírnen's arrival had awakened him like a bolt from the skies. He had been asleep, lost in an apparent cloud of uncertainty. In the lull after victory he had gotten so caught up in politics, parties, and his own feelings that he had completely forgotten the next step of his journey, the reason that he had been meant to fight in the first place: the Riders' return.

There was so much work to do, and Eragon was almost giddy with excitement.

A whoosh from above cut across the noise of the crowd. All eyes were drawn to the skies as Thorn and Murtagh swooped down on them. The cobblestones cracked as he heavily landed, and Murtagh hopped down from his shoulders, looking absolutely stunned.

"Arya?" He shouted. Eragon, Arya, Saphira, and Fírnen stopped, halting the procession of people. Murtagh strode up to them, amazed.

"It hatched for _you_!" he cried. He was smiling from ear to ear. "Oh, this is perfect!"

Eragon raised his eyebrows, bemused at Murtagh's eager excitement. He had never seen him appear so carefree and happy. Murtagh's bright gaze went up to Fírnen.

_And who do I have the pleasure of greeting? _Murtagh asked.

_I am Fírnen,_ he answered.

_Welcome to Ilirea, Fírnen,_ said Murtagh warmly. Then he looked to Arya with the same, infectious smile.

"Arya, I couldn't ask for a better Rider to be with us."

Arya smiled back and nodded.

"I am glad."

Thorn and Fírnen greeted each other as Murtagh turned to Eragon and clapped his hands together.

"Eragon, Nasuada will want all of you to see her immediately. I know she'll want to meet Fírnen as soon as possible."

"We were heading there just now," said Eragon. "Join us?"

"Of course," said Murtagh. He smiled and waved for Thorn, and, as he came to stand beside Eragon and Thorn beside Saphira, their unofficial procession continued. It was obvious now that Ilirea had been designed by the elves, and thus was fit for dragons – in no other human city would three dragons have been able to fit abreast on the street.

"Oh, and just so you don't hear it from anyone else-" said Murtagh with a small laugh, "Nasuada and I are engaged."

"Engaged!" Eragon exclaimed, almost stopping in his tracks. Saphira snorted in surprise. Arya did stop for a moment. "So that's why you're yourself again!"

Murtagh grinned and brushed his bangs out of his face.

"I must say that the Varden were in a bit of an uproar – but I think Arya and Fírnen have them distracted. For a while, at least."

"Well, congratulations, to the both of you," said Eragon, clapping Murtagh on the shoulder.

"What will be done about the people's reaction to the marriage?" Arya asked.

Murtagh shrugged.

"She's Queen. I think she'll tell them that, in that regard, she can do as she pleases."

_It's not going to be that simple, _said Saphira to Eragon, privately. Eragon agreed, but didn't want to dim Murtagh's happy mood.

It took them a long while to walk to the second-highest rim of the city, so long that Eragon was close to simply hopping onto Saphira's back and flying there. The rumble of three dragons' footsteps under his feet was strange, but one of the most wonderful things he had ever felt. It had been a long time since Alagäesia had felt that weight.

When they arrived at Nasuada's mansion, she was already outside, wearing a blue dress with silver sleeves, waiting for them to approach.

"I cannot believe it!" she shouted, striding briskly toward them. "Arya, please introduce me to your dragon!"

"Nasuada, this is Fírnen," said Arya, indicating him with a hand. "Fírnen, this is Nasuada, Queen of the Empire."

"Fírnen," said Nasuada, coming to stop in front of him. "I cannot tell you how happy I am to meet the first dragon born into freedom."

_I am honored, my lady,_ said Firnen, nodding to her and smiling with his eyes.

"So, I hear you are to be congratulated," said Arya. Nasuada smiled, her teeth glaringly white against her dark skin.

"Murtagh told you, did he?"

_No, it was me,_ said Thorn.

"Shush!" said Nasuada, sidling up to Murtagh so that he could put his arm around her. Eragon noticed the glittering golden ring on her finger – one of exquisite craftsmanship.

"That ring is beautiful," he commented. He turned to Murtagh. "Where did you get it?"

"I made it," said Murtagh with a pleased grin. "A variation on the spell to create a Fairth, actually."

"Truly?" said Arya, stepping forward for a closer look. "That is indeed very fine work."

"Thank you."

"Nasuada, we have some business with you," said Eragon, quickly breaking their focus on her ring.

"What is it?" Nasuada asked, instantly interested.

Eragon looked over his shoulder. The crowd that had followed them was beginning to disperse, but was by no means gone yet.

"Could we go inside to talk? It is not something I want out in the open just yet."

"Of course. Do you dragons mind?" she asked, looking up to them.

_Even though we are outside, we will be as present as always, _said Saphira. She shook her head and huffed. _Doru Araeba is the only place in Alagäesia sensible enough to ensure that all of its buildings that can hold us._

Nasuada led Murtagh, Eragon, and Arya into her home, to the room where they had chosen her to be Queen. It was untouched – a round room with a small table in the center, with an opened balcony overlooking the city. Bright sunlight and fresh air streamed in, making the room feel alive.

"What is it that you want to discuss?" Nasuada asked, turning to look to Eragon, assuming the regal bearing of a Queen once again.

"My Lady, Arya and Fírnen's arrival brought it back to the forefront of my mind," Eragon began. "We need to begin to rebuild the Riders, as soon as possible."

"But… can you do that so soon?" Nasuada asked. "I understand your desire to establish them again, but…" She raised her eyebrows uncomfortably. "No offense is intended, but unless Saphira and either Fírnen or Thorn… well, you know what I mean – Unless that were to happen immediately, and even then, there won't be more dragon eggs to hatch for riders for a long while.

Eragon found a smile coming to his lips, unable to fathom how he had forgotten.

"Nasuada, there is something that Saphira and I… inadvertently kept from you," he said. He glanced at Arya and Murtagh. "Kept from everyone, actually."

"Well, speak up," Murtagh prodded.

"When we went to Vroengard and opened the Vault of Souls, Saphira and I found more than Eldunarí. We found eggs."

Murtagh's jaw dropped. Arya staggered.

"Eggs," she repeated.

"How many?" Nasuada demanded.

_One hundred and thirty-three,_ Umaroth interjected. Everyone jumped. He chuckled. _Forgive me. I have not spoken for several days; I do think Eragon and Saphira had forgotten that we were here._

"Why did you not tell me this the moment you returned?" Nasuada asked, her cheeks coloring with the obvious beginnings of outrage. Eragon raised a hand to try to calm her.

"We did not know," he answered.

Nasuada frowned.

"You are not making sense."

_If I may,_ said Umaroth, _A spell was cast upon all of us who left the Vault so that we would not remember anything about the eggs or the remaining Eldunarí on Vroengard. This was to ensure that, if we were captured by Galbatorix, the Vault would be safe and another Rider in the future would have the chance to finish what Eragon and Saphira had begun. _

Everyone was silent for a moment.

"I suppose I can forgive that," said Nasuada finally.

"We need to go to Vroengard," said Eragon firmly. "There is a reason the Riders chose it in the first place. It belongs to no one, so that no nation can claim that they control it, and it is remote enough to be secure, as any enemy would have to travel miles across the ocean in order to get to us. The poison from Thúviel's explosion is easily cleaned from the air and the ground – we have seen that here. Doru Araeba is the perfect place. It always was."

"I agree," said Arya, nodding eagerly. "My people will be overjoyed to help rebuild it. In fact, in the intervening years when we are gaining our own experience, I am sure some of my people would be very glad to help instruct our students in the finer points of magic – which I think you and Murtagh could do with as well," she added with a half smile.

Eragon raised his eyebrows.

"Oh really?" he challenged.

"Yes."

Eragon and Murtagh gave each other a look.

"Fair enough," said Murtagh, shrugging. "Galbatorix didn't really teach me much beyond combat magic, anyway. I think I would enjoy learning more."

"Your plan is excellent, Eragon," said Nasuada. "We will need to assign a group of individuals to ferry the dragon eggs across Alagäesia, as Arya once did, once you retrieve them from Vroengard." She looked to him. "When will you go?"

"That was not my only business," said Eragon, "I have a few more things to add."

He told them of his idea. He and Saphira had thrown thoughts back and forth on their long flights across the land – Umaroth and the other Eldunarí had also helped.

Nasuada was already nodding before he was finished speaking.

"It is a good idea," she said. "It should have been done long ago."

"It can be done, correct?" Murtagh asked, looking to Arya.

"I believe so. Umaroth would know better, actually."

There was a pause before Umaroth answered.

_It can. With the power of the Word, and with the assistance of the Dragons, it can._

"I have one final idea, Nasuada," said Eragon.

"Just one?" Nasuada asked with a smile. Murtagh chuckled.

"It is in answer to the problem with Magic. The current issue is that Magicians roam, unknown and unchecked. Yes?"

"That is the short answer," said Nasuada, nodding.

"Even when the Riders were at their full strength, it was still a bit of a problem," Arya added.

"So, we create a school of Magic, near Ilirea," said Eragon in a sure voice. "We bring some of the greatest magicians here to teach – Humans, Dwarves, Urgals, and Elves alike. We make it a prestigious honor to become a student. In the meanwhile, when new magicians are discovering their power, they will be invited to attend - perhaps we can craft a spell that can detect fledgling magicians. In this way, the idea of learning magic on your own, or from the medicine man in your village, will die out, and the Empire will also know who all of the magicians are. Any magicians who use their skills for ill will be dealt with by the Riders."

Nasuada clasped her hands together.

"Excellent. That is indeed a usable answer."

"And, to further secure the safety of the people," Murtagh added, "Make using the energy of an Eldunarí without their consent an offense punishable by death."

They solemnly agreed.

"I will have to accompany you on your journey, of course," said Nasuada. "I should be present for such important events."

"Plus, you want to see Ellesméra," said Murtagh wryly.

"That, too."

VVVVVVVV

Later that day, Nasuada announced that the Varden was officially disbanded, and all who wished to remain in direct service of the Empire could do so. Unless there were members of the Varden who wished to remain in Ilirea, everyone who had served could return home and remain a part of the army at the garrison stationed there. She also added that she would indeed be marrying Murtagh, and that it was her own choice as to who she married, not the people's.

"Anything done to him is done to me. Any disrespect to him is disrespect to me. We are one, he and I. I will not tolerate anything less."

Eragon went to find Roran as soon as he heard the news. The varden camp outside the city was a mass of flurried activity – everyone was busy gathering their belongings and folding up their tents. It filled Eragon with an odd sense of loss as he listened to the excited chatter and the clamoring noise of the camp as it slowly began to disappear. The Varden was gone, divided up, each member heading away to begin a new life.

Eragon came upon Roran slinging a heavy pack over his shoulder, Katrina close beside him, their tent dismantled and put away. The other villagers from Carvahall were already gathering in the area, beginning to form a caravan. They all shouted at Eragon in greeting as he approached. Eragon smiled as he accepted their salutations. Some things never changed. Even though he was a dragon rider, they still thought of him as a son of Carvahall.

"You're leaving already?" Eragon asked Roran.

"We need to get back as soon as possible, before the winter hits - it's a long journey from here to Therinsford."

"Therinsford?" Eragon asked.

"We'll be staying there until we have enough of Carvahall built," Roran answered.

"Are you sure that you and Katrina couldn't be bothered to come on a slight detour?"

Roran raised a curious eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"We're going to go to Tronjheim and Ellesmera," said Eragon. "All of the riders, as well as Nasuada - to speak with Orik and King Dáthedr."

Roran's eyes lit up.

"I have always wanted to see Tronjheim," he said wistfully. He looked over his shoulder at the villagers. "But… I don't know if I can leave-"

"Roran, you are paranoid," Katrina spoke up.

"Not without reason," Roran countered. "There are many things that can happen between here and Therinsford."

"And I am sure that they will be able to handle it," said Katrina. "After everything we have been through, we can handle anything."

Roran let out a sigh, then called out to Horst.

"Would you lead them home for me?" he asked as Horst approached.

"Aren't you coming?" Horst asked, his brow furrowing. Everyone had paused in what they were doing to watch Roran. He smiled and turned to them.

"Eragon is offering to take me and Katrina with him to Tronjheim and to Ellesméra," he announced. "I would meet you in Therinsford after that. Do you think you can find your way back without me?"

They laughed and shouted jibes at him, then returned to their packing. Roran turned back to Eragon with a grin.

"It appears that Katrina and I will get a bit of a honeymoon after all."

VVVVVVVV

The following morning, all preparations had been made. Eragon, Arya, and Murtagh had filled their dragons' saddlebags with provisions, and were ready to leave. Nasuada would be riding with Murtagh, Katrina with Arya, and Roran with Eragon. All three dragons spread their wings as one and launched into the air, Katrina and Roran's exhilarated shouts, followed by Murtagh and Eragon's laughter, echoing through the streets as their dragons' talons left the cobblestones. A cheer rang out from the entire city as they passed overhead and crossed over the outer walls, heading into the rising sun.

VVVVVVVV

There you go! Please review!


	10. Prayer

Sorry for the wait! Life sucks.

VVVVVVVV

Saphira, Fírnen, and Thorn stayed high in the clouds as they traveled southeast, letting the gusty winds drive them towards the mountains. As they crossed the southern edge of the Hadarac desert, the hot, shimmering air rising from the blistering sands drove them even higher, on individual pillars of waving heat that made the dragons soar up and down. The dragons reveled in the heat, wheras the humans' skin was beginning to dry and burn long before they left the sands behind. Eragon's lip balm that Oromis had given him helped considerably.

When they settled down for the night, the dragons would lay in a circle and the humans would sit within it, leaning back on the great beasts' flanks. As the winds during flight prevented them from talking, they spent most of their time talking and enjoying each others' company during the night before they slept, while an orange fire crackled in the center of the group to keep away the desert's nightly chill. Everything was perfect. Everyone who should be there, was there. Eragon finally found a relaxing peace coming over him for the first time since Garrow's death as he sat among his friends and at Arya's side.

Before the end of the following day the Beor mountains appeared on the horizon. Eragon touched Roran's mind and pointed to them.

_Look,_ he said.

Roran squinted into the distance. He brightened.

_Ah! We've finally- _

Roran stopped. Just as Murtagh had when he had first laid eyes on them, he thought that the foothills were the mountains themselves. Roran's eyes slowly widened as he took the enormous mountains in.

_There is no way,_ he breathed. He waved to Katrina and pointed. Katrina's jaw dropped when she saw what he was pointing to.

_The map-makers always painted them so huge! I thought they were exaggerating!_

Eragon grinned.

_Wait until we get closer,_ said Saphira.

_They are utterly ridiculous, _said Fírnen.

_How could anything but gods be responsible? _Thorn agreed. Eragon glanced at Arya with raised eyebrows. She smiled and shook her head, her hair whipping back and forth in the wind like a black flag.

Roran, Katrina, Thorn, and Fírnen's amazement would only continue to grow as their wings and the wind brought them all to the mountains themselves. Though the dragons had most likely seen these sights in the memories of their Riders, Eragon knew it was another thing entirely to experience it for oneself. The mountains towered high above even the dragons' flight, piercing through the clouds when they were only halfway done rising to their peaks. They were built of the roughest, most rugged stone that appeared through the scattered grasses and clumps of forest. As always, Eragon felt very small when in these mountains. They made the Spine seem like a cluster of pebbles.

With Saphira leading the way, they flew to Tronjheim. They were greeted by a massive crowd of dwarves, cheering for them as they landed. Orik himself came to greet them before they had even entered the city.

Orik immediately embraced Eragon around the middle, and Eragon clapped him on the back.

"Why did you not tell us you were coming?" He demanded cheerfully as he pulled away from their hug.

"I thought we'd surprise you," Eragon answered.

"And who - … is this!" He shouted, staring up at Fírnen. Arya smiled.

"This is Fírnen," she said.

"Another dragon, and for Arya no less! This is splendid. We shall have a feast, tonight!" Orik bellowed. The dwarves cheered again.

Eragon laughed, then gestured to the group. "Could my friends get a tour of Tronjheim? Roran came here specifically to see its wonders."

Orik chuckled brightly.

"Of course! I will have Roeft show them everything there is to see."

Eragon felt a mental nudge, like a touch on the arm. He found Thorn looking down at him.

_Yes?_

_ Would you please tell Orik that I humbly ask to come along?_

Eragon nodded.

_Of course. _He turned to Orik. "Thorn requests that he may be allowed to come along as well."

Orik's expression darkened slightly.

"Yes," he said. "All who wish to go, may. Saphira, even though you have seen it, would you like to come as well?"

_I would at that,_ she answered. _Eragon, Arya, Murtagh, and Nasuada have an important matter to speak with you about, in any case. _

Orik looked up to Eragon in interest.

"You are full of surprises, Eragon. Well then, please come with me."

Roran and Katrina, as well as the three dragons, were led off to see the city. Roran and Katrina were already craning their necks back, looking at the massive architecture that towered up above them. Even with the amount of time that Eragon had spent here, it stunned him every time when he saw how high the ceilings were, how thick and sturdy the granite pillars, the artistry of the staircases and the stonework.

Orik brought the four of them to the throne room. It was a massive room of white marble, with small enclaves running along its walls. In each stood a statue of a previous dwarf king. At the far end of the room stood a sturdy throne of black marble, the identical to the one that Eragon and Murtagh had seen at the dwarves' royal pavilion in the Varden camp.

"What is it you want to discuss?" Orik asked as the guards closed the doors behind them, not bothering to walk all the way back to his throne. Eragon and Arya stood side by side before him, while Murtagh stood a few steps behind them. Nasuada stepped forward from Murtagh's shoulder and came to stand closer to Orik.

"We want to add the Dwarves to the Rider pact," said Eragon. His voice echoed throughout the chamber as though amplified, reverberating out of each enclave. No one spoke as the shadow of his voice died away. It seemed as though all eyes were on them, even the eyes of the long-dead dwarven kings.

Orik chewed on his bottom lip for a moment.

"I see," he said quietly.

"It is the best thing we can do, for all of the nations," said Arya quietly. "It had never occurred to me in this way until Eragon mentioned it, but it is indeed strange that men were added to the pact, but no one else was. It is unfair."

Orik nodded.

"I agree. I do believe that we were not added because we have never wanted to be a part of the Riders. Our memories are long, and we have long had bad blood between us and the dragons."

"But you do agree with the idea," Eragon pressed.

Orik nodded once more.

"I do. My people have never desired it, and will rail against it at first, but I believe it is for our own good." He turned to Nasuada. "What do you say of this?"

"It is the right thing to do," she said simply.

Orik raised his chin.

"Very well, Eragon. You have my blessing."

As they exited the throne room, Eragon turned to Orik with one more question.

"Orik?"

Orik, and the rest of their group, stopped.

"Yes?" Orik asked. Eragon smiled and waved them away.

"It's fine, you can go catch up with the others," he said. Murtagh and Nasuada left, but Arya remained.

"Orik, do you - no, do we – have a place where we can… talk to the gods?"

Arya looked at him askance. Orik looked a little taken aback, but readily answered.

"Of course. Which god?"

Eragon pondered for a moment.

"Helzvog."

Orik nodded.

"I will take you there."

He strode off down the broad hallway, his boot steps echoing off of the walls. Eragon and Arya followed. Arya leaned close to his ear.

"Eragon, what are you doing?" she murmured. "Why do you need-"

"Please, Arya," Eragon interrupted in a low voice. "This is something I want to do." Orik glanced back over his shoulder.

"Are you coming, foster brother?"

Orik led them through the grand halls and cavernous rooms of Tronjheim at a steady pace. The city was not nearly as populated as it had been when Eragon had first been introduced to it, but they still passed as many dwarves as one would on any human city street. When passers-by would see them, they would all bow and make way for Orik, often followed by clapping their fists together and saying 'Argetlam.'

Orik led them into the central chamber of Tronjheim, under the shimmering Isdar Mithrim, and to a corridor that Eragon had not entered before. Its ceiling was short, its walls thin – any group entering it would be forced to walk two abreast – and its walls had been stained brown. The stone underneath Eragon's feet was weathered and worn from centuries of footsteps treading over its surface. At the other end of the corridor a pale light glimmered.

Orik led them into what could only be described as the chamber of a cathedral – similar to the one in Dras Leona, but without the stain of gore and madness lurking in its shadows. Stone benches stood in rows, marching on either side of a central aisle that led to a raised platform. On the platform stood a massive sculpture of the god Helzvog himself, a muscular figure bent forward, resting on one knee, his hand touching upon the stone beneath him. A hole had been cut in the ceiling, so that the distant sunlight, the same that illuminated the star sapphire, filtered into the chamber and cast its faint rays upon the statue's back and shoulders, leaving its face partially in shadow.

Eragon found himself becoming very still. Scattered thoughts that clogged his mind faded away as he looked on the chamber. Arya stood behind him, silent. He could feel her confusion.

"Is there anything I must do?" Eragon asked, looking to Orik. "So that he will know to listen?"

Orik smiled and waved a hand toward the front of the chamber, shaking his head.

"He needs nothing. Simply approach him and speak."

Eragon glanced at Arya.

"Would you wait for me?" he asked.

Arya nodded, then strode over to one of the benches and sat down.

"Eragon, I must return – there is an audience scheduled," said Orik. Eragon nodded, finding his gaze becoming transfixed upon Helzvog's image.

"It's fine," he murmured.

He felt Orik nod and leave the room. Orik's footsteps echoed through the cavernous room from down the narrow hallway, fading away and softening into silence. Eragon walked forward down the aisle towards the statue, every thought slipping away from him until he was left with a simple stillness.

The statue of Helzvog grew larger and larger until it towered over him, its face still in shadow as it looked down on its massive hand touching the stone. Eragon stopped his advance before the statue, looking up into its partially hidden visage. Then he kneeled, his clothes rustling, adjusting his sword so that its scabbard wouldn't clank against the floor and lowering his head.

He didn't know what to say. Part of him didn't know why he had the desire to come here in the first place. He felt his heartbeat slow, his breathing automatically deepening and forming a steady rhythm. A memory flashed into his head, of kneeling in Helgrind Cathedral and praying to who knew what. The thought of once feeling reverent in that place reviled him.

Even though he did not know what to say, he began to speak anyway. His voice was soft, almost silent, and he continued to look down. For some reason, he felt this was between him and Helzvog, and not for anyone else's ears.

"Helzvog," he began. He breathed deeply and let the air flow out of him. "I never did thank you for answering my first prayer. For stopping the wind. Thank you."

He adjusted his arm, so that he was leaning his forearm on his knee, and inclined his head further.

"Even though I lost so much… I suppose I want to also thank you for my life. For the journey I took. Thank you for Saphira. Thank you that my cousin, Roran, didn't get killed or captured. I suppose…just…. Thank you for watching over me - if it was you."

Eragon fell silent; he had no more words. For a small moment after he ceased talking, he felt a gentle touch, almost like Saphira nudging him awake, but in that small second he knew it wasn't her; it disappeared as quickly as it had come, so fast that he almost doubted that he had felt it at all.

Eragon rose to his feet. His heart felt light, but he was heavy as well. Solemn. He looked up to the statue, almost expecting it to have moved, or acknowledged him in some way, but it was the same as before. He turned and walked back down the aisle between the rows of benches, treading softly, and came to sit next to Arya.

"What was this all about?" Arya asked quietly as he lowered himself onto the bench.

"I wanted to pray," Eragon answered, indicating the statue with a nod.

Arya shook her head.

"You know as much as I do about the dwarven gods. You know how impossible half of the dwarves' beliefs are."

"I don't claim to know everything," Eragon answered quietly. "I just feel… something about it. That it is good."

Arya sighed and brushed her raven hair out of her eyes.

"Well, what did you pray for?"

"Nothing," said Eragon. "I was thanking him."

"For what?" she asked, turning to him. He turned to her and looked into her eyes.

"For… everything, I suppose. For everything that I have."

Arya raised an eyebrow, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

Eragon found himself beginning to smile back.

"I realized… I forgot to thank him for one more thing." Eragon added.

"And what is that?"

He placed his hand on her arm and ran it up her shoulder, gently curling his fingers around the back of her neck.

"Arya… may I-"

"-Eragon, you talk too much."

Arya leaned forward and kissed him. He closed his eyes. They pulled close to one another, wrapping their arms around each other.

_Thelduin allr, Eka elrun ono wiol thornessa,_ he whispered to the heavens.

Above all, I thank you for this.

VVVVVVVV

It's not done yet! Please review! :)


	11. The Dawn

So sorry about the long wait! But I think you'll find it was worth it.

VVVVVVVV

They remained only for another day in Tronjheim, and, although they all wanted to stay longer, Eragon also wanted to get to Ellesméra as soon as possible. There would be plenty of time for pleasure and rest after their work was concluded. After saying a long series of goodbyes to Orik and the rest of the dwarves, Eragon, Arya, Roran, Katrina, Murtagh, and Nasuada mounted the dragons and took off for the northwest, the echo of the farewell crowd's cheers fading into the mountains as they left the great city behind.

By noon they had flown into the massive valley that housed the beartooth river, and could see the gap where the range ended on the other side, like the mouth of the mountains. Arya had suggested taking the same route that Eragon had on his first journey to Ellesméra, following the Az Ragni and Edda rivers north to Du Weldenvarden, but Eragon knew they had one more stop to make before the Elves, and it lay in the West.

After they left the Beors behind, they traveled directly northeast across the Hadarac desert. That night they descended on still-warm sands to make camp, and Eragon used the technique that he had discovered on his first journey through the desert to gather water from deep underground to re-fill their water skins.

In another day the desert receded behind them, to be replaced by hills of dry grass that crackled as the wind blew through them. When they arrived at Iliréa they only stopped for a brief rest and a meal, during which Nasuada was brought up to pace with all the latest developments in the capital, and then they resumed their journey before something could hold them back.

Two evenings later they arrived at the shores of lake Fläm, where Nar Garzhvog and the Herndall had founded a new Urgal village. On their arrival, the Urgals insisted upon throwing an enormous feast for them – they were immensely glad to see him and Saphira again, honored by Murtagh and Thorn's presence, proud to knock foreheads with Roran and to greet his mate, as they called her, and ecstatic at seeing Arya astride Fírnen. Fírnen himself appeared a little flustered at all of the attention he was receiving.

Many of the female Urgals came up to them, eager to introduce themselves, as few of the Urgal women had joined in the fight against the Empire. They were somewhat slimmer than their men but just as tall, and their horns tended to be shorter and more delicate, although still massive. With them were Urgal children: the younger ones lacking horns, the older ones with scaly nubs upon their foreheads that protruded between one and five inches. Without their horns, they looked surprisingly like humans despite the different color of their skin and their eyes. It was obvious that some of the children were Kull, for even the younger ones towered over their compatriots and, sometimes, their parents.

The next morning, after the carousing and frivolity of the feast (from which Eragon found himself blotched with a dozen or more bruises as a result of the friendly knocks and cuffs he had received), the group of riders and their companions went with Garzhvog to speak with the Herndall. The twelve dams held court in a low, circular hut filled with the smoke of burning juniper and cedar. The wicker doorway was barely large enough for Saphira's head, let alone three dragons, and so they contented themselves with waiting outside again and participating in the meeting through the eyes of their Riders.

The dams were exceedingly old, and several were blind and toothless. They wore robes patterned with knots similar to the woven straps that hung outside each building, and which bore the crest of the inhabitants' clan. Each of the Herndall carried a stick carved with patterns that held no meaning for anyone but them.

With Garzhvog translating, Eragon told them of the first part of his plan to forestall future conflict between the Urgals and the other races, which was for the Urgals who were not graced with magic and would not be attending the Imperial School to be given enlistment into the Empire's army. In this way they would most certainly find glory in the battle to regain stability in the years ahead, and they would be doing the Empire a service with their prowess rather than causing discord.

"The Empire belongs to all races who wish to make it a home, not just humans," said Eragon. "Nasuada has given it her full blessing. Is that not so?" He asked, glancing at her.

She nodded firmly.

"It is so. We are honored to accept the Urgals into our fighting forces; all members will be afforded the same respect and honor as any other."

_That was a good addition,_ Eragon thought privately.

The Herndall consulted among themselves for several minutes; then the oldest, a white-haired dam whose horns had worn away to almost nothing, spoke. Garzhvog again translated: "Yours is a good idea, Firesword. We welcome this."

Pleased, Eragon bowed and thanked them.

"Even so, this step towards your equality in the Empire is yet not enough," Eragon continued. "We have an additional proposition."

The Herndall listened in silence as he explained, though Garzhvog stirred, as if uneasy, and uttered a low grunt. When Eragon finished, the Herndall did not speak or move for several minutes, and Eragon began to feel uncomfortable under the unblinking stare of those who could still see.

Then the rightmost Urgal shook her stick, and a pair of stone rings attached to it rattled loudly in the smoke-filled hut. She spoke slowly, the words thick and muddied, as if her tongue was swollen.

"You would do this for us?"

"I would," said Eragon.

"If you do, then all of you will be the greatest friends the Urgralgra have ever had, and we will remember your names for the rest of time. We will weave them into every one of our thulqna, and we will carve them onto our pillars, and we will teach them to our younglings when their horns bud."

"Then your answer is yes?" asked Nasuada.

"It is."

Garzhvog paused and – speaking for himself, Eragon thought – he said, "Firesword, you do not know how much this means to my people. We will always be in your debt."

"You owe us nothing," said Eragon. "This is what should have been done when men were added to the pact."

They talked with the Herndall for a while longer, discussing the particulars of the arrangement, and then the group made their farewells and resumed their journey towards Ellesméra.

Mid-afternoon of the third day after leaving the Urgal village, the dragons' shadows passed over the first trees of Du Weldenvarden and the ground beneath them changed from gentle grasslands to a sea of green carpet that rustled and waved in the sweeping breezes. Saphira took a deep lungful of air through her nose.

_Even though I love the desert, I do believe I like this forest more,_ she declared with a sigh. Eragon chuckled and rubbed her neck.

_I think I feel the same about it,_ he said quietly. _Vrael had a house in Ellesméra. Perhaps you and I can, as well._

Saphira thrummed in her throat.

When they reached the wards that guarded the elven borders of Du Weldenvarden, the dragons were forced to land and everyone had to proceed on foot. They were greeted by a shimmering guardian that appeared beside one of the trees, similar to the one Eragon had met on his first journey to the forest, and were allowed to pass through the magical barriers after speaking to him.

Eragon took a deep breath of the forest air, and for the first time in many weeks, he allowed his worries to slip away.

VVVVVVVV

The forest grew more grand and wondrous with each footstep. The sunlight filtered through the branches, cascading through the leaves and casting patterns across their shoulders and over the dragons' glittering scales. Roran, Katrina, Nasuada, and Thorn stared in all directions, wide-eyed at the spectacle. Eragon grinned to himself, knowing that it would only get better.

As they approached Ellesméra in earnest, they began to pass elves on the road they followed. There were none who didn't give them a second glance, and none who didn't at least greet them in traditional elvish fashion. Eragon recognized many of their faces from either when he had been in Ellesméra before or from coming across them in the Varden camp outside of Iliréa.

Gradually, the ancient, weathered trees began to transform into structures made from the trees themselves. Roran pointed to the first one he saw.

"How are those made?" he wondered.

"We use magic to sing them into shape," said Arya, smiling at his apparent glee.

"Ah. Now these are fine buildings. I know that the villagers would much rather rebuild Carvahall from their own hands, but still… I wish I could use magic."

When the sweeping buildings shaped from living trees began to outnumber the normal trees, Eragon began to recognize where they were. It was as though he had never left. He rubbed Saphira's shoulder as they walked.

_This does feel like home._

They made their way to the Royal palace, and were greeted by King Dáthedr himself_._ Again Eragon, Murtagh, and Arya explained their idea about the Dwarves and the Urgals being added to the Dragon pact. After consulting for a long while with his advisors, King Dáthedr returned to them and agreed.

Dáthedr summoned thirty of the Elves' most accomplished spellcasters, as well as the two Caretakers: the elf women Iduna and Nëya, who were the living embodiment of the pact between the dragons and the Riders, and soon all stood before him in the glimmering clearing at the entrance to the palace.

The Caretakers disrobed, and – in accordance with the ancient rituals – everyone present began to sing, and as they sang, Iduna and Nëya danced, moving together so that the dragon tattooed across them seemed to be a single, unified creature.

At the height of the song, the dragon shimmered, and then opened its jaws and stretched its wings and leaped forward, pulling itself off the elves' skin and rising above the clearing until only its tail remained in contact with the Caretakers.

Eragon called to the glowing creature, and when he had its attention, he explained to it what he wanted and asked if the dragons would agree.

_Do what you will,_ said the spectral creature. _If it will help ensure peace throughout Alagaësia, we do not object._

Then Eragon read from one of the books of the Riders that Dáthedr had had brought for this occasion, and spoke the name of the ancient language silently, in his mind. The elves and the dragons present, including Umaroth, Glaedr, and all of the other Eldunarí that Eragon still had with him, lent him the strength of their bodies, and the energy from them coursed through his muscles and his veins like a raging tempest. With it, Eragon cast the spell he had spent every night of this journey perfecting in his head, a spell such as had not been cast for eons: an enchantment like the ancient magics that ran deep in the veins of the earth and the roots of the mountains. With it, he dared to do what had never been done in history.

He altered the contract.

He bound not just the elves and the humans to the dragons, but also the dwarves and the Urgals. For a brief flash the thought of adding the werecats as well came to him, but then he knew that King Halfpaw would probably cut out his eyes for binding a race so wild and roaming as they.

And as he spoke the final words, sealing the contract in place for the rest of time, a great sense of elation filled him and everyone present – he could feel it in their thoughts before they withdrew from him. Then, just moments after he had spoken the last word, a tremor ran through the earth and the air. He felt that, in that one moment, the world had shifted just slightly.

The spell exhausted all of them, but everyone was smiling. Today was the first day.

The first, new day of a great and wonderful age.

VVVVVVVV

That evening, as the stars appeared one by one in the deepening blue sky and sparkled through the intertwining branches, all who participated in the casting of the spell, and many more besides, gathered for a feast. Shimmering, warm werelights illuminated the scene like flameless torches, and all talked and laughed with a frivolity that Eragon had previously not experienced among the elves. Perhaps the fall of Glabatorix hadn't relaxed only Arya. Even though the elves had always brimmed with a vibrant energy that was almost a visible aura about them, now they were afire with gaiety. It made everyone who had traveled from Tronjheim to Ellesméra talk and laugh just as much as the rest; the Faelnírv helped, as well.

After he had eaten, Eragon excused himself from the frivolities and faded into the trees. Saphira sent him a questioning thought, but he brushed her fondly to let her know everything was fine.

_Where are you going?_ She asked.

_To keep a promise._

Eragon followed the winding paths through the city until he stood in the clearing where the Agaetí Blödhren had been held, where the Menoa tree now stood with its branches curving outward overhead. Eragon approached the tree and gently touched his palm to its rough and knotted bark.

_Linnëa. Linnëa, awake! I must speak with you!_ He waited, but as had occurred the first time he had attempted this, he detected no response from the tree; it was as if he were attempting to communicate with the earth itself. _Linnëa, I must speak with you!_

A sigh of wind seemed to pass through his mind, and he felt a thought, faint and distant, which said, _What, O Rider…?_

_ Linnëa, when I was last here, I promised that I would give you whatever you wanted in exchange for the brightsteel under your roots. My quest is complete, and I will soon be leaving Ellesméra to return to Iliréa before Doru Araeba is built. I have come to fulfill my obligation before I go. What would you have of me?_

The Menoa tree did not answer, but Eragon felt the distant breeze of its consciousness drift through his thoughts, examining his memories from the time he had last been in Ellesméra to this moment.

Finally, she spoke, her voice already fading to silence.

_You… have… done… enough…_

And then the tree withdrew from him.

He stood where he was for another few minutes, calling her name, but the tree did not respond. In the end Eragon left, feeling as if the matter was still unsettled, although the Menoa tree obviously thought otherwise.

VVVVVVVV

They spent the next few days wandering the paths of Ellesméra, Eragon and Arya showing Roran, Katrina, Murtagh and Nasuada all there was to see. Saphira and Fírnen immediately insisted on showing Thorn Ellesméra the way a dragon was meant to see it, and thus took to the skies and left the remainder of their group to continue their walking.

On the last day before their return to Iliréa, for Nasuada was beginning to feel worried about being any longer away from the capital, Eragon made a stop to an out of the way elven house that he knew very well.

He didn't bother knocking, for he knew how she preferred things, and found Rhünon heating a billet in the flames of her forge, presumably to mold into mail.

"I heard you survived," she said without looking up from her work. She grasped the billet with a large pair of tongs and rotated it in the coals.

"We did," said Eragon. "I came to ask you something."

She glanced at him, then worked the fire a bit with the bellows to keep it at the correct temperature.

"Stop just standing there. Ask."

"Would you like to be free from your oath?"

Rhunön froze mid-squeeze with the bellows. Her brow furrowed and she looked directly at him with narrow, shrewd eyes. She ran her teeth over her bottom lip.

"What has worked its way into your brain? You think that just because you have defeated Galbatorix you have the power to change such things?"

Eragon snorted and shrugged, looking down at her with a smile. Finally she couldn't stand it.

"I'm listening," she said in a low voice.

"Galbatorix unearthed the True Name."

Rhunön blinked.

"_The_ Name?"

"Yes," said Eragon. "It was his undoing really. He taught it to Murtagh, and Murtagh was able to use it against him."

"Idiot," Rhunön growled. Then she jumped, realizing that her attention had drifted from the fires, and quickly returned to her work.

"You're distracting me, Eragon. Hurry up."

"Murtagh told me the Word. To keep it safe, we've left Galbatirix' spell, which makes any others who hear it forget it, intact. With it, I can render oaths meaningless."

Rhunön's eyes sparkled.

"I saw the look in your eye before we forged my sword," Eragon continued. "I think you regret swearing that oath. Even more importantly, we will have new riders soon. Lots of them. And new Riders means new blades."

Rhunön appeared to be quivering. Eragon frowned and took a step toward her.

"Are you all right?"

"Remove the oath, you imbecile!" she burst out. Eragon, jumped in surprise, then laughed. With a Word, Eragon stripped her oath from her.

Her head raised and her shoulders became straight and true, as though a great weight she had been carrying had suddenly been lifted from them. Then she looked to her forge; she ripped the billet out and dumped it unceremoniously in the water trough.

"Forget this mail shirt. I have a beautiful dagger that's been festering in my brain for sixty years."

She immediately ran to a separate room in the back of her house, where Eragon could hear the clinks of her sifting around through the raw chunks of steel that she stored back there. Smiling, taking that as her word of thanks, Eragon departed.

VVVVVVVV

The following morning, after a long bout of farewells, they departed from Ellesméra. When they heard the news that the Riders would once again be using Vroengard as their home, the elves ecstatically began gathering their finest craftsmen and magicians for a journey to the island to begin work. Some spellcasters had already departed ahead of them, to clean the air of the poisons before the bulk of the workers arrived.

After a few miles of flight, the group headed west, toward the Spine. By sunset they had left the forests behind, and were close to Therinsford. When they landed on the outskirts of town they were happily greeted by the villagers of Carvahall, who had made the journey from Ilirea without so much as a broken wagon wheel. Eragon laughed. It seemed that only when one was _leaving_ Carvahall did one encounter every obstacle in existence.

"You could stay with us, you know," Roran offered. "Help us to rebuild."

Eragon declined.

"Since I'm not going to call it my home, I think it's best if I'm left out of it."

Roran looked at him squarely, with a fierce eye.

"Carvahall is _always_ your home," he murmured. After a moment, Eragon nodded.

"Well then, be sure to invite me for your first feast, your Lordship."

Roran grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Besides," said Katrina, toting Ismira over her shoulder, "You _must_ come to Carvahall as often as you can so that you can be Ismira's doting uncle. I expect nothing less of you."

Eragon smiled.

"Then I'm glad that Vroengard is so close!"

VVVVVVVV

In three months, the three dragon riders returned to Carvahall for the promised feast. Eragon insisted that Murtagh come along, since Roran was his cousin as well and he was therefore required to be Ismira's doting uncle as well. The feast was held in a massive Hall that the townspeople had built, which was joined with Roran's house as he was the Earl. As he had intended, Carvahall now had a protective wall around it, to prevent the sort of tragedies that forced them to leave their home from ever happening again.

Their celebration of the new village was similar to the dinner that Eragon had celebrated in Ellesméra, but with much more carousing. Warm torchlight glimmered all about, bathing the richly-colored wood gold and making the silverware and food-laden platters glitter and shine. Saphira absolutely insisted that Thorn and Fírnen have some mead, and by the end of the night the dragons were swaying with everyone else as they sang old drinking songs, thrumming in their throats and trying not to tip over onto the table.

As the night came to a close, Eragon thanked Roran for the feast and gave Katrina and Ismira his love, and soon the torches were being extinguished and the people of Carvahall were trundling out of the doors into the starry night. A cold breeze wafted over the mountains from the sea and ruffled the few flames that hadn't been doused yet.

Eragon, Saphira, Arya, Fírnen, Murtagh, and Thorn exited the hall, the last to leave before the bars on the enormous oaken doors were lowered. They all stood on the paving stones that jutted out from the hill on which the hall stood, looking down at the cozy assortment of houses grouped on the hills that rose towards the Spine. Eragon took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, feeling very full of food as well as a quiet contentment. He leaned back against Saphira's foreleg.

_Thank you, Saphira,_ he said quietly. She thrummed and lowered her head to his, not needing to ask what for. Murtagh, who also looked out at the dark collection of houses; he let out a sigh, and his breath fogged like frost on the air.

"I am glad you brought me for this, Eragon," he said quietly. Eragon nodded.

"I am glad you came."

_I would have dragged him here anyway if he didn't want to,_ said Thorn. He swayed on his talons, still a little tipsy. _I now know another of Galbatorix's wrongs – not allowing us to have mead._

Eragon chuckled.

_Beware of tomorrow morning,_ he cautioned.

There was a wary pause.

…_What's tomorrow morning?_ Fírnen demanded sluggishly.

Eragon, Arya, Murtagh, and Saphira laughed, and Thorn and Fírnen simply looked confused. The sound of Arya's laughter brought within Eragon a happiness that only knew one source. He turned to her, his eyes sparkling.

"I just realized something," he murmured.

Arya turned her head and smiled, the stars reflecting in her eyes and casting a silver sheen on her hair.

"What is that?" she asked.

"I've never told you that I love you."

This time it was Eragon that leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers. He closed his eyes, and for a single moment became a part of an infinite whole, his being infused with hers.

Their kiss ended, and in the same moment they looked upon each other again.

"And I love you, my Eragon."

The six stood together in that spot on the sweeping rise of little Carvahall, enjoying this single moment in time where all was right, all was perfect, and all was how it should be. They were together. They had love.

They were free.

EPILOGUE

_Angela,_

_ I decided to write you to say that Saphira and I will be completely disregarding your prophecy. I don't care what you saw in the carvings on the dragon bones. The reconstruction of Doru Araeba is going extremely well despite some little troubles here and there with the Snálgi, we have two new Riders on their way – you may have heard about that – and Murtagh and Thorn are rapidly becoming their own selves again. And Arya and I – we are happy. If we ever do leave Alagäesia, it will be on our terms, for our own reasons, and not because of anything anyone else says. All I am meaning to say is, Saphira and I will do whatever we want._

_ Eragon_

It was a few weeks before he received Angela's reply. But when he did, it was in the form of a simple roll of parchment; on it was inscribed a single word:

_Good._

THE END

VVVVVVVV

Thank you so much for taking this journey with me! I absolutely loved writing it for you, and I can't believe how popular it was. It was a joy, really. I know that many of you wanted more chapters, but everything must come to an end, and to take it further than its time is to do damage to it, no matter how much we desire to follow them forever. They have achieved their victory and their piece, and with that knowledge we can now look back and smile fondly on all that we experienced and everyone we loved.

If you are interested, at htt p:/ / uploading . com / files / 3bam1392 / The% 2BTrue% 2BInheritance . pdf you can find this story in .pdf form, formatted in the exact same fonts and chapter headings as the actual book, so that you may print them out and when you read them they will look as though they belong with the rest of the books. I'm sure that the binding of your copy of "Inheritance" won't be too stressed by these added 86 pages stuffed in them!

To all the fans, I've garnered: thank you, fricaya. I'm a bit of a sporadic author as fanfiction is concerned, so when I get around to writing another story, I'll be excited to see your names in the reviews again!

Atra esterní ono thelduin,

Mor'ranr lifa unin hjarta onr,

Un du evarinya ono varda.

Farewell, friends.

And farewell Eragon, Saphira, and all the rest.

We have loved you.

-Adin


	12. The Ancient Language

Hey everybody! Long time no see. I've had a few people ask for translations of the ancient language phrases I used, so I'll be glad to provide. Also, I wanted to let you know that I'm now on twitter! Come follow me - my username is Michaelcholman (that's my real name) - and we'll have a chat! I look forward to hearing from you again!

At any rate here's the translations, as promised!

_Eragon Shadeslayer achí taka ren wiol nosu, und thornessa hringr er älfrí ëinradhin!_

"Eragon Shadeslayer has given an oath for us, and this ring is his word!"

_Malthinae älfr kalfaya!_

"Bind his calves!"

_Stenr, eitha!_

"Stone, leave!"

…_sem er okaligr vel kalfaya iet,"_

"…magic that is working on my calves."

_Audr!_

"Up!"

_Atra einnhverr sem freista eom haína stenr thornessa deyja._

"Let anyone who tries to harm this stone die."

_Ilian Agaetí Chrísti!_

"Happy Celebration of Christ!" – (from my Christmas post)

_Ór, rïsa. Moi. Atra sem unin iet auga hugr waíse sjonro vel thornessa hringr. Atra thornessa ór waíse harth líki bjartstal, un moi onitha wiol Nasuada Drottning._

"Gold, rise. Change. Let what is in my mind's eye be seen on this ring. Let this gold be hard like Brightsteel, and change only for Queen Nasuada."

VVVVV

That's all of them, aside from the elvish greetings – you already know what those mean.

Thank you again for all of your support with this story!

Atra esterní ono thelduin,

-Adin the Conqueror / Michael C Holman


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